The MacKinnon's Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “And why would that be?” Iain asked her, his tone controlled, his body restrained, lest he destroy all that he saw within sight in his temper. This very moment, he felt near as violent in his anger as he had the day when he’d returned to find Malcom gone.

  “Because... Iain... it had been his brother your mother loved... his brother your father killed. It was an accident, o’course. The two had long been friends... but they fought... and there was too much rage between them to stop it.” Her voice softened. “And ye dinna realize, Iain, lad, but Lagan is the verra image o’ your minnie... while ye are the likeness o’ your da.”

  Iain closed his eyes and tried to hear his father’s reason. He imagined the anger his brother... Christ... his brother... must feel.

  “Lagan never had a chance with MacLean’s daughter, Iain. I thought he should know why. It was surprising enough that auld MacLean had been willin’ to entrust his eldest daughter into your hands. God only knows... I wish I hadna told him.”

  “Why did he do it for me, I wonder?”

  “MacLean?” Glenna shook her head. “I dunno, but I wish he had not. Were the choice between you and Lagan, I wish it had been Lagan,” she told him honestly, “and ye know I dinna mean to wish ye ill. ‘Tis merely that for ye and for Mairi there was ne’er any love. While Lagan loved Mairi’s sister, of a certain—and he’s envied ye all his life, besides. He never wanted me, Iain,” she lamented. “It was you and your da he always envied.”

  Iain shook his head, benumbed. “I cannot believe ye didna tell me, Glenna.”

  “It was your da’s wish... to protect ye, love.”

  “Nay, Glenna,” Iain countered with conviction, his tone clipped with pain and fury. For the first time in his life, he understood so much. “It was my da’s wish to hide from the truth,” he disputed her. “He didna wish to face the fact that his wife was in love wi’ another man. Just as it was his wish to raise a perfect son—a son without weaknesses—a legacy for himself. Bastard. ‘Tis no wonder Lagan resents me so! Who could blame him?”

  There was an instant of silence between them. Glenna hung her head, unable to respond.

  “And why should ye choose now... this instant to unburden yourself to me, Glenna?”

  Her chin lifted. Her eyes welled again with tears. “Och! ‘Tis Lagan,” she began. “I dinna—”

  The door burst open.

  “Iain!” Broc bellowed. “I think ye’d better come!”

  Iain’s nerves were near to snapping. He doubted there was one more incident he could deal with this day. “What now, Broc?” he asked without turning, his fist clenching upon the table before him.

  “’Tis David!” Broc revealed.

  Iain stiffened. “David?”

  “Aye... he rides wi’ FitzSimon ti reclaim FitzSimon’s daughter.”

  chapter 32

  To his credit, David, King of Scotia—so he claimed—sat his mount in thoughtful silence, listening. Iain was aware of him, his easy demeanor, though his own thoughts were racing with the possible reasons for Page’s disappearance. He’d summoned her at once upon her father’s arrival, only to learn she’d vanished.

  She couldn’t possibly have known of her father’s approach, and it didn’t make much sense to Iain that she would wander away so late. Nor had it been so long since he’d left her. She couldn’t have gone far.

  Her da, however, had long since dismounted and paced before him now like a maddened beast.

  “I cannot believe you would lose her!” FitzSimon shouted at him, and it was all Iain could do not to murder the man where he stood.

  “I entrust my daughter to your hands!” he spat. “And this is how you care for her?”

  Iain restrained his temper, telling himself that there would be plenty of time to kill him once he resolved the situation at hand. He couldn’t keep his tongue stilled, however, as FitzSimon was a lying bastard. “Entrust? Is that what ye call it when ye Sassenachs cast your own kin away?”

  FitzSimon had the decency to stutter at the question. “I—I was angry,” he reasoned. “I did not realize what I was saying—what I was doing!”

  “Bluidy lyin’ bastard! Ye seemed to know just fine,” Angus interjected.

  Iain cast Angus a quelling glance, and then returned his attention to FitzSimon. “You sounded to me like a mon who knew his mind well enough,” Iain proposed. “I gave you plenty o’ opportunity to change your mind and ye didna. Ye wouldna.”

  “I was angry,” FitzSimon reasoned once more.

  “And do ye think I’m no’ angry?” Iain returned. “Just because I’m standin’ here listenin’ to you doesna mean to say I dinna take pleasure in the thought o’ carvin’ the heart from your feckless body!”

  FitzSimon stared warily.

  “A mon is no’ a mon, but a beast, if he canna use his reason,” Iain said.

  FitzSimon said nothing, and Iain decided he hadn’t spoken clearly enough.

  “You are worse than any beast I know, for e’en a beast doesna sacrifice his young!”

  “I did not know she was my daughter!” FitzSimon admitted, shocking Iain with the disclosure. Of all the things he might have spoken, it was the one thing to which Iain could not respond. His own revelations were too freshly revealed.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Dougal came running from the tower, breathless. “I canna find Malcom, either,” he said, between pants. “I looked everywhere, and I canna! Nor Lagan either!”

  Murmurs filled the air. Iain’s heart began to pound all the more fiercely. “Neither Malcom, Lagan, nor Page?” The hairs of his nape stood upon end.

  “Nary a one!”

  Iain tried not to give in to panic. Panic would gain him naught, he knew. “Did no one see them go?”

  It seemed a thousand murmurs responded, none of them yes.

  And then he heard his son’s shouts, distant, but unmistakable, and his heart jolted. He tore through the crowd at once, shoving his way through to follow the sound. “Malcom!” he called out.

  “Da!” his son cried, running through the night toward them, his voice full of fear. “Da!”

  Iain began to run.

  “Da!” Malcom wailed.

  Iain reached him and swept him up into his arms, embracing him desperately. “What, Malcom?”

  “Lagan!” Malcom sobbed. “Page!” And then he began to cry hysterically, uncontrollably.

  Iain’s heart tripped. He shook his son in a moment of desperation. “Malcom, tell me!”

  “Lagan was g-gain’ t-to k-kill me, da,” he cried, choking on his sobs. “P-Page p-pushed him.” He sobbed, clutching Iain’s neck, and Iain felt his legs go weak beneath him. His mind raced.

  “Pushed him? Where?”

  He gripped his son beneath the arms, pulling him away, his arms trembling.

  Malcom held on all the tighter. “I didna want to leave her, Da, but she told me to run!”

  “Where is she now?” Iain choked out, and his heartbeat stilled for the answer.

  “O’er the bluffside!” Malcom cried. “She went o’er the bluff, Da!”

  Praying to God he wasn’t too late, he thrust Malcom away and into waiting arms.

  Christ in Heaven above! he thought. Do not let it be too late!

  Page had fallen, her body scraping over rock and brush, onto a ledge in the cliffside where the rock jutted outward. Somehow, though the impact had driven the air from her lungs, she’d managed to hold on to the small platform.

  Groping blindly with her feet for a better hold than the tentative one she had, she found a place in the craggy cliffside where she could snuggle her toes. And then she held on for her life!

  It seemed an eternity passed before she heard the first voices above.

  She didn’t wait to be called upon; she shouted at the top of her lungs. And still it was another eternity before they followed her voice to where she hung so precariously along the cliffside.

  “Are ye hurt, lass?” Page heard Iain ask.

/>   Sweet Jesu! It was about time! “Well, if I am,” she returned somewhat caustically, “I certainly have no wish to know this minute! Rather ask me when I’m safe above!”

  His answering chuckle, uneasy though it sounded, reassured her somehow. “Verra well,” he told her, his tone clearly filled with relief. “Hold fast now,” he said, “I’m comin’ down after ye, lass!”

  “Och!” Page mocked him. “But ye dinna have to tell me so, I think. I’m holding! God’s truth, I’m holding!”

  Once again his laughter drifted down from above, and Page tried to ignore the fact that her fingers were growing weary and raw from gripping the jagged rock. She was not going to die! Not now! Jesu Christ, but she refused!

  “Hurry!” she urged him, and knew she sounded afeared.

  “Keep talking to me, dearlin’!” he directed her, his voice calm, though she could scarce mistake the urgency in his command. “I’ll be coming for ye anon!”

  Keep talking? By the bloody saints! What in creation was she supposed to talk about?

  She asked him as much, and he said, “Anything, lass... just so I know where to find ye.”

  “Let me talk to her,” she heard a familiar voice say, and her heart leapt. Nay! But it could not be!

  “Bluidy hell if you will!” she heard Iain deny him. “Ye’ve done enough harm as it is. Get oot o’ my way, and leave her be!”

  Page was so staggered by the discovery that he’d come, after all, that she nearly lost her tenuous grip upon the rock.

  She screeched as she slipped a little. “Father?” she called out. Her heart began to pound all the faster, and her vision threatened to turn black. “Is it you?”

  “Aye, Page,” he answered. “’Tis me!”

  She heard Iain’s curse, but was too dazed to comprehend its cause.

  “You’ve come!” she cried, and squealed as her fingers slipped a little. In desperation, she released one hand and grasped out, thanking God above for the bush he placed within her reach. She used it to support her weight while her other hand searched and found a more tangible hold. She found it just in time, for the bush began to uproot.

  “Sweet Mary, Mother of God!” she exclaimed.

  “Aye, Page,” he shouted down to her. “I’ve much to tell you, daughter mine.”

  Fine time, Page thought.

  “No’ now, ye willna!” she heard Iain argue with him. “Now isna the time to unburden yourself! Now get the bluidy hell oota my way!”

  “In the meantime,” Page shouted a little frantically, “whilst you two argue, my hands are aching, and my feet are slipping, and I do not wish to end like Lagan, if you please!”

  There was a long interval of silence, too long, Page thought, and then Iain said, “Dinna worry, love. I’ll be comin’ down now.” And sure enough, she heard him making his way down the cliffside. “Page?” he called out once more.

  Page squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that he would reach her soon. The pebbles at her toes were beginning to loosen and roll free.

  “Are ye certain Lagan went down, lass?”

  Page swallowed at the memory of his screams as he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far and so long, and his bellow had continued for what had seemed an eternity.

  “Aye,” she answered. “He’s gone!”

  She heard the scuffing of his boots as he came nearer.

  “We fell together,” she told him, groaning, and opened her eyes to search for his descending shadow against the cliffside. “Only I somehow ended here, and he down there!” And she added silently, thank God!

  “Thank God!” he said, and his voice was nearer now. “Malcom told me what ye did—and God’s teeth! I thought we’d lost ye too, lass!”

  “Aye, well...” She whimpered as her toe lost its footing. She heard the loose rocks cascade downward, dragging the cliffside, until they descended into stony silence, and swallowed convulsively as she searched out another toehold. “I... I did tell you I was stubborn and canny,” she warned him, trying to make merry.

  “That ye did, lass,” he told her, chuckling softly, much closer now. “That ye did.”

  And then suddenly she could see him, and her heart leapt with joy. When his face came into view, the moonlight reflecting within his wonderful golden eyes, she thought she would weep with delight.

  And then suddenly he was there at her side. Page might have cast herself into his arms, but she was so afeared to move that he had to pry her free from the rock.

  “I canna save ye if ye willna let go,” he advised her.

  “And I will not let go until you save me!” she returned.

  “Och, but ye’ve a saucy tongue!”

  “Aye, well! My father’s here to take me off your hands at last! You’ll not have to endure it much longer, it seems.”

  He made some sound, like a snarl, and jerked her away from the rock. When at last she was in his arms, her tears began to flow at once. She clung to him, weeping, babbling nonsensically, and all the while he stroked her head and held her close. And she didn’t know which she was more aggrieved over: the fact that she’d come so close to cracking her head upon the rocks below, or that her father had finally come to collect her.

  “Wrap yourself about me, Page,” he whispered. “And dinna let go.”

  Page did as she was told, burying her face against his throat, her lips against the warmth of his flesh. She wrapped her legs about his waist and held to him for dear life.

  “Och,” he whispered, holding her close. Page thought he would squeeze her until she broke, but she couldn’t truly care this moment. She wanted him to hold her so, never wanted him to let her go.

  “Malcom told me everything. You’re a stouthearted lass,” he told her with pride. “I believe we’ll make a fine Scotswoman oota ye yet.”

  “I’m sorry about Lagan,” she whispered.

  “’Tis no fault o’ your own,” he said, kissing the pate of her head.

  “Malcom?”

  “His heart is bruised, but he’ll live,” Iain assured her.

  “And my father?”

  “Aye, Page,” he answered. “He’s come for ye... as ye always said he would.”

  Page squeezed her eyes closed against his breacan, reveling in the scent of the man who held her. She wasn’t certain what it was she was feeling this moment, whether joy or something else entirely—regret?—but she knew without a doubt who it was who held her. Not her father.

  “By the blessed stone, Iain MacKinnon... dinna be keepin’ us waitin’,” came a voice from above. “D’ ye have the lassie, or nay?”

  “Are ye ready to face him?” Iain whispered.

  Page laughed softly and held him all the more tightly. “Do I have a choice?” she asked him morosely. When she left this embrace... would it be their last? “If I say nay, can we stay here forever?”

  He chuckled softly. “Och, but, lass, I believe Angus may have somethin’ to say aboot that.”

  “Iain!” Angus shouted down at them. “Come on now, lad! These auld arms canna hold ye burly arse down there forever!”

  “See?” Iain asked her, and he lifted his head from the embrace to shout his reply. “Aye, Angus! Draw us up now, will ye!”

  Page couldn’t help herself.

  Some part of her suddenly wished she’d ended upon the rocks below. While merely hours before, she’d never felt more alive, more cherished, more complete, she now felt only an overwhelming emptiness in her heart.

  Jesu, but her father had come for her, after all.

  Iain was uncertain how to feel.

  In the space of a single day he’d discovered a brother, and then lost him. And in the course of the same day had come near to losing his son and the woman he loved, as well.

  Later he would sort out his feelings for the brother he’d never claimed, and for the father who had denied them both. For now, his son was safe with Glenna. But while Page was safe from Lagan’s fate, he was now in danger of losing her yet again. And this time he couldn’t simply sweep he
r out of harm’s reach.

  More than aught, he wanted her to stay—and if she decided ’twas her heart’s desire to do so, then her father’s entourage along with David of Scotia’s were not enough to prevail against him.

  And if she chose to go, it would be the single most difficult thing he’d ever done, but Iain would let her. Och, but he knew how important her father’s acceptance was to her.

  He could tell by the way she clung to him that she was afeared. He gave her ribs a squeeze when they neared the bluff top, and then handed her up into waiting arms. Kerwyn and Kermichil together hauled her up and onto her feet. And then with Angus’s help, Iain climbed over the cliff edge, as well.

  She looked so like a child standing there by the moonlight that Iain’s heart wrenched for her. He knew this moment was difficult for her, and he wanted so much to whisk her away from her bastard sire, and keep her always from harm.

  He couldn’t do that, though. He knew that as well as she, and he was proud of her when she went to FitzSimon and stood before him. There were no embraces between them, but then Iain hadn’t expected any.

  He could scarce bear the thought of her leaving with her father. It wrenched at his gut, but he knew he wouldn’t stop her. He wanted her to be happy. And Christ, if that meant she would leave him, so be it.

  Though it seemed impossible to restrain himself, he did so, remaining behind her at a safe distance—safe for him, because he wanted to lunge at FitzSimon’s throat and murder the bastard where he stood.

  “I’ve come to take you home, daughter.”

  Page could scarce speak, so overwhelmed was she with conflicting emotions.

  How long had she waited for her father to call her “daughter?”

  An eternity too long.

  And now he was here, speaking the words she’d so longed to hear, and all she wished to do was to slap his face! Aye, some part of her wanted to fall to his feet and thank him profusely, but some other wicked part of her wanted to deny him as he had done so long to her.

  She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, demanding of him, “Why?” It was her right to know why he should change his mind. She wanted to believe he’d had a change of heart, but it was more like to be that he’d finally found some use for her.