He peered at the ground a long moment, and then again met her gaze. “The truth?”
“Aye,” Page answered. “The truth.”
“I did not believe you were my daughter. I thought you were Henry’s bastard, conceived by my wife.”
Her brow furrowed. God’s truth, she should have been shocked by his revelation, but wasn’t. “I see,” she said, and tried to find some comfort in his explanation. She found it only angered her all the more. “And now?”
“Your mother is long dead. I cannot make it up to her.”
Page stood silent, listening.
“I never believed her, Page... but I confronted Henry at long last... when he came to take the boy. He swears to me that your mother was pure, and he never had carnal knowledge of her. I never believed her,” he said again. “And I took it out upon you. For that, daughter, you have my deepest regrets.”
Regrets? For a lifetime of disregard? For casting her mother away for a sin she hadn’t committed?
Page remained silent.
“I just could not see what she could possibly want with me when she had England’s king enamored of her, instead. I drove her away, Page. But I’ll make it up to you—I swear it! I shall find you a fitting spouse, and make you the lady you deserve to be!”
Page’s eyes welled with tears. He was saying the things she’d so longed to hear. As a child. What she would have given to hear them spoken then...
At this moment... they merely confused her. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do... nor did she seem to have a choice. Iain and his people had been generous enough to take her in, had embraced her these last days like one of their own... but only because her father had not wanted her.
And here he was, her father, willing and ready to take her home, it seemed.
“The MacKinnon’s bride is a lady!” someone suddenly proclaimed. Page turned and spied Broc stepping forward from the gathered crowd, his stance battle-ready. His expression, though obscured by the night’s shadows, was unmistakably angry and full of challenge. She wasn’t certain which she was more shocked by... the fact that he had claimed her as the MacKinnon’s bride, or that he’d come forward to defend her.
Her brows knit suddenly, as the reason for his indignation filtered through her. Jesu! Why hadn’t she caught the slur in her father’s words? She was a lady, indeed!
“Bride?” her father asked, oblivious to his own offense. “My daughter is no bride to this man!” His tone was contemptuous. “She will have better than a savage Scot!”
“Aye,” Angus argued, stepping forward, as well. “I say she is the MacKinnon’s bride!”
“Aye,” came a cacophony of voices from the gathered crowd. “She’s the MacKinnon’s bride!” and “She’s the MacKinnon’s bride, all right!”
Page could scarcely believe her eyes and ears.
“Is this true?” came a voice from the shadows.
Page searched out the speaker and found it belonged to a man still mounted upon horseback. He’d been watching quietly from a distance, and now seemed to be peering straight at her, waiting for her response... Nay, not her... She suddenly realized he was looking past her. She peered over her shoulder and found Iain standing guard at her back. He said nothing, seemed to be scrutinizing her, his eyes seeing only her, ignoring the surrounding crowd.
“My daughter is no bride to this barbarian!” her father contended. “He stole her from me, and I would have her returned!”
Stole. Returned. The words leapt out at her from her father’s tirade.
Her gaze snapped back to meet her father’s angry glare.
FitzSimon turned to regard the man on horseback. “I demand you command him to release her at once!”
“You demand?” the man asked from his vantage in the shadows.
“I did not come all this way to leave empty- handed,” her father raved. “Release her to me, or—”
“Or what?” the man on horseback asked.
“Or I—”
“Iain MacKinnon?” the horseman asked, dismissing her father suddenly. “What say you to this? Is this woman your bride or nay?”
Page braced herself for his reply. She closed her eyes.
“Why do you not ask my lady?” he suggested.
Page turned to look at him in shock. He merely smiled at her, saying nothing. He nodded, urging her to answer the inquiry. And in that instant she understood love in its purest form. It was unveiled to her as it never had been before.
Her decision was clear: Choose a father who never once acknowledged her—cared so little that he never even bothered to give her a name—or choose a man with compassion enough that he would risk her anger to offer her one? Choose the one who rebuffed her though she was flesh and blood to him, or he who chose to take her into his fold, despite that she was a sour-mouthed wench and caused him more trouble than he’d ever bargained for? She smiled at the memory. He hadn’t wanted her. She’d been cast into his unwilling hands, and yet he’d not turned her away.
She turned to meet her father’s eyes.
“Tell him, Page!” her father barked at her.
Nor, Page realized in that moment, had it been her father who had risked himself to deliver her from the jaws of death. It had been Iain’s arms that had borne her to safety.
And it was Iain now who loved her enough to give her a choice.
“What say you, lass?” the horseman asked her.
She had no notion who he might be, but knew instinctively that he was someone of consequence. Even Iain, while not overly obsequious, seemed to defer to him. King David? It would make sense, Page thought, for her father would have gone to him for safe passage into the Highlands. Either David or Henry. But only David could ride with so few into these people’s midst, and only a Scotsman would dare.
She turned again to address Iain, needing to know if he meant it true. He seemed to understand her silent plea, and she never needed to utter a word. He nodded, urging her to speak.
Page met her father’s gaze once more and lifted her chin. Her lips curved into a smile as she declared, “I am.”
“You are what?” her father snapped.
“The MacKinnon’s bride,” she said almost too softly to be heard.
“Nay! He’s forcing her!” her father declared, turning to address the horseman. “Did you see that?”
Page met David of Scotland’s gaze, lifting her chin determinedly. “No one forces me,” she assured him, her voice stronger.
“Speak it louder, Page,” Iain whispered at her back, and her heart flowered with joy as she’d never known before.
A smile burst upon her lips. “I am the MacKinnon’s bride!” she all but shouted.
All at once, a shout rang out. In unison, the clansmen cheered. Page felt her heart swell, until it seemed as though it would burst.
The horseman looked past her once more to Iain. “Is this true?”
Silence fell again. Iain stepped forward then, placing his arms about her in a protective embrace. “Aye.”
“Well, then, FitzSimon,” the horseman declared. “It seems to me your daughter is, in fact, the MacKinnon’s bride.”
Once again cheers rang out, and Page was scarce aware of the tirade her father began, nor even the quarrel between him and the horseman, nor the angry shouts of the MacKinnon men as they demanded he leave. She was aware only of the man at her back. She scarce knew it when her father stalked away and mounted his horse in anger. He spouted curses as he hied away, followed by an unsympathetic band of Scotsmen.
“You’ve not heard the last of this,” her father declared. “I will demand satisfaction!”
Page giggled softly. “He will, you realize,” she warned Iain. “He does not like to be thwarted.”
“So ye told me once before,” he reminded her. “I dinna think he’ll be back,” he assured her. “Look at them,” he urged her. “Ye’ve wormed your way into my people’s hearts—sassy- mouthed wench that ye are! If he comes back, they’ll flay
him alive.”
Page chuckled at his choice of words, remembering she’d said something of the same to him some time ago. Following his gaze to the angry horde of Scotsmen chasing her father from their land, shouting curses and threats at his back, she giggled at the sight of them. Some part of her was sad to see her father “go, for he was her father, after all, but the greater part of her felt only relief.
“I love ye, lass,” Iain whispered in her ear, tightening the embrace. “Och, I’ve somethin’ for you,” he revealed, releasing her suddenly. He searched through the folds of his breacan and drew something from it. Embracing her once more from behind, he offered her the battered remains of a yellow crocus. Her yellow crocus. The one she’d discarded in anger. He’d somehow found it, and saved it for her. “The moment I laid ye down upon that bed o’ blossoms,” he told her, “I considered ye mine. But I wanted to hear from your own lips that ye considered me yours.”
Page was too overwhelmed to speak. “I am.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I do,” she cried softly.
“Say it again,” he urged her, squeezing her gently.
“I am,” she said with a contented sigh, “I am the MacKinnon’s bride.”
“That ye are,” he assured her. “And I’ll ne’er let ye regret it for the rest o’ your days. I’ll make ye happy, Page. I pledge to ye my love and my loyalty, and I wed thee here in the name of God.”
Loyalty, she could well believe. “Love?” she asked him. “Truly?”
He turned her about to face him. “Dinna ye doubt it, lass.” Grasping her arms, he shook her gently. “I love ye fiercely, truly, and gladly!” And then he kissed her upon the bridge of the nose.
“And I love you,” Page confessed. “I love you fiercely, truly, and gladly, too.” And she did, without fear or reservation.
He lifted her up without warning, and tossed her over his shoulders.
Page squealed in surprise. “What are you doing?” she demanded in feigned outrage.
“I’m takin’ ye home, lass... afore ye change your mind.”
She laughed.
“Anyway, I’m a savage Scot,” he reminded her. “We dinna want to be disappointin’ your da.”
Page laughed with scandalized delight.
“First,” he declared, “you’re gain’ to be seein’ to my son—assure him that ye live—and then I’m going to take ye to my bed... make ye sing me a sweet lullai bye.”
And that he did.
And that she did.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tanya has written 17 novels, all of which have graced numerous bestseller lists including the New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two dogs and two cats in Northern Michigan.
For more information:
Visit www.tanyaannecrosby.com
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
The MacKinnon's Bride Page 29
