Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  At once they seized her by the arms.

  “Nay! But nay! My father will flay you alive, MacKinnon!”

  Page shrieked in outrage when he dared to turn his back upon her and walk away, leaving her at the mercy of his men.

  “Brute! Oaf!” She shouted. “He’ll gouge out your eyes!”

  He stopped abruptly and turned to assess her once more, this time without the slightest pretense at civility.

  “You tell me he values you?”

  Was he challenging her?

  Page flinched over the question. The answer, of course, was nay, and she thought her heart would burst with misery over his question. For a terrible moment she couldn’t speak to answer. “Of course he values me,” she said finally, feeling the burn of tears in her eyes. But tears were for the feeble, and Page was anything but. Aye, her father had taught her well. She lifted her chin, daring the MacKinnon to refute her. “I am his daughter, am I not?”

  He didn’t respond.

  Could he possibly know?

  Was he laughing behind that turbulent gaze?

  Rotten knave! She knew he must be.

  Everyone knew her father disdained her.

  “Good,” he said, “Good.” And he continued to scrutinize her with narrowed eyes. “And you say King Henry comes on the morrow to take my son? Where does he plan to take him?”

  Page straightened to her full height, her lips turning with a smugness she didn’t quite feel. “Aye, he comes, and when he does, he’ll—”

  “Do what?” he interrupted.

  Page blinked at his question. What, indeed, would he do? Naught, she determined, for she knew Henry not at all and she rather doubted he would trouble himself for her benefit if her father did not value her at all. And her father did not. She swallowed the knot that rose in her throat and tried to wrench free of her captors, to no avail.

  “Answer me! Where does he think to take my son?”

  “My father will tear out your hearts and I will watch and laugh,” she said without much confidence.

  Unaffected by her dire predictions, he advanced upon her, demanding once more, “I said where does he plan to take my son?”

  Page loathed herself for cowing to him. “I-I don’t know!”

  His gaze scrutinized her through the shadows. Recognizing her lie?

  “For truth?”

  Her voice sounded feeble even to her own ears. “Aye. For truth.”

  “Well, no matter,” he yielded. “King Henry will never set eyes upon my boy. Silence her, Lagan! I dinna wish to hear another word out o’ that Sassenach mouth!”

  Chapter 3

  Never in the whole of his life had Iain met a woman so vexsome—or quite so impertinent! He was glad to know her father would deal with him come morning, because he couldn’t wait to be rid of her—the sooner the better.

  And yet, much as he wished to summon FitzSimon from his bed at this very hour, to ransom Malcom this instant, if their prisoner spoke true, and King Henry arrived on the morrow, that was one more advantage he could press should the need arise. ’Twas said that, forsaking comfort, and in favor of celerity, the English king often rode with a minimum retinue. Iain was counting on it. He had nigh forty men at his disposal—more than most traveled with at best—more than enough to give FitzSimon good pause.

  Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.

  In the meantime, he was going to have to keep their guest bound and gagged, lest she drive his men to murder.

  Or Iain to worse.

  Of all the impudent, foolhardy... plucky women.

  She’d actually defended his son. Against him! The notion was absolutely ludicrous, and yet... She had said Malcom would not speak.

  Iain tried to consider the news rationally—for his son’s sake. ’Twould serve no purpose at all to be losin’ his wits now when he needed them most.

  The fact that FitzSimon’s shrewish daughter had thought him responsible for Malcom’s ailment led him to believe that she, in truth, had had no part in his affliction.

  Unless she was protecting her Da?

  Probably not. After the manner in which she spoke of him, Iain doubted she thought he needed protecting. She had made her good for nothing Da out to be some venerable champion. To hear her speak, she bore little fear of Iain’s reprisal. On the contrary, she expected her Da to flay him alive. He shook his head with wonder over the callowness of her words.

  His son was like to be frightened and that’s what kept his tongue stilled. Malcom liked to believe himself as a little man, though he was still a child, with a child’s heart. Iain clenched his jaw.

  When he discovered the traitor who took his son...

  As much as it pained him to think it, it must have been someone from within the clan, for the scoundrel left no witnesses, and no evidence to betray himself. He’d come, like the proverbial thief in the night, stole Malcom from his bed, and then fled, leaving no one the wiser.

  The girl defended his son.

  Iain shook his head in wonder. He didn’t know whether to kiss her soundly for her unbiased defense of Malcom, or to strangle her where she stood.

  Of a certain, she was a sharp-tongued lassie with a mouth the likes o’ which he’d never known a woman could possess. But he grinned then, despite himself, because he couldn’t believe she’d been so barefaced as to ask his men if they were catching glowworms. He chuckled at the memory. Merely the looks upon his men’s faces had been worth a king’s ransom.

  Aye, he was going to have to remain close to the girl, he resolved, lest she tempt his men to murder—but first things first. Right now he intended to retrieve the girl’s garments from the riverbank where she’d very likely abandoned them. He had to believe she’d worn more clothes than those she bore upon her back. The last thing he needed now was a distraction—and that she certainly was.

  By the stone, who could help but stare when she stood all but naked before him?

  Which brought him to wonder yet again... what sort of Da allowed his only daughter to roam the countryside nearly as naked as Eve?

  He must not know. There were daughters who were governable, and daughters who were not, he reasoned. She must be one of those.

  Had she been his own daughter, Iain would have locked her safely away within a tower until the day she pledged her vows.

  Impertinent, sour-mouthed lass.

  * * *

  Later that night, while the rotten lot of them lay snoring upon their backs, Page sat, shivering with her back against a tree, arms twisted and bound behind her back and a sour-tasting rag wedged within her mouth.Not that she could have slept anyhow, for she was much too miserable with worry and regret. Why couldn’t she have been one of those who were content to simply sit in the solar and sew? Her mother had been a lady, true. Why not her?

  Why couldn’t she be what her father wished of her?

  Then again, she reflected somewhat bitterly, the answer to that question might better be known if only Page knew what it was that her father wished of her.

  The truth was that she couldn’t please him—never had been able to please him at all. And what was worse, she wasn’t certain she wished to try—not anymore.

  She might not have to after tonight.

  That thought sent a shudder through her.

  What would they do to her once they discovered that her father didn’t really want her? Hugh FitzSimon would no more give up that boy than he would spit in the king’s eye—not for Page, he would not.

  Well, she told herself, she didn’t care.

  She truly didn’t care.

  What was the worst that could happen to her?

  Her eyes stung with hot, angry tears.

  Her best bet was to escape … so she set her wiles to that end. Trying not to deliberate the consequences should she fail, she watched her captors.

  To her dismay, the original four had not come alone as she’d suspected. Worse, she couldn’t precisely make out how many there actually were. Their limbs and bodies al
l merged together in the darkness—like cadavers huddled in a common grave. But there were a lot of them, she surmised.

  They’d dragged her shrieking like a fishwife into their camp, and the lascivious looks she’d gotten from the lot of them had made her resolve never to look a man in the face again.

  Overweening boors.

  That MacKinnon in particular.

  She shuddered, remembering the way he had looked at her with that knowing look in his eyes. And suddenly, unreasonably, she found herself wondering what color his eyes were. Blue? Green? She hadn’t quite been able to make them out in the darkness, though she was certain they wouldn’t be so common as hers. There was naught ordinary about the infuriating man.

  He had yet to return.

  Not that Page cared whether she ever saw his too comely face again, she assured herself, but—though, well, curse it all, mayhap she did, and then frowned over the admission, her brow furrowing as she contemplated the truth.

  ’Twas only natural, she reasoned. After all, she didn’t trust his men.

  But had she anymore cause to trust him?

  Nay.

  At any rate, it wasn’t precisely that she trusted him. It was just that she didn’t mistrust him quite so much—although why she should feel even thus, Page couldn’t begin to say. He was probably no better than all the rest.

  After she was bound to the tree, he and the one called Lagan had departed camp. She imagined they were out scouting Aldergh's defenses as a precaution.

  Well, good for them, because her father was going to send them all to the devil, she was aggrieved to admit. It mattered not what she’d claimed, or what she secretly hoped, she wouldn’t delude herself into believing otherwise. The Scots were stuck with her, didn’t they know.

  If she didn’t freeze to death first.

  She heard the MacKinnon’s voice long before she spied him and her stomach lurched as the two men reemerged from the woods—the MacKinnon and the one called Lagan, the boor who’d shoved the rag into her mouth. They stood whispering beside the fire. Yet another thing she could thank them for—setting her so far from the fire’s heat, as wet as she was, and leaving her to freeze to death in the chill night air. Thoughtless wretches.

  The firelight flickered between them, casting a copper light against their bodies and faces, distorting their images. Caught between the eerie glow of the flame and the obscurity of shadow, the MacKinnon cut a daunting figure. Dressed in a black woolen tunic and cloaked in his belted breacan, he stood at least six inches taller than her father in his thick leather-lined boots. In a leonine display of masculinity, MacKinnon’s dark wavy mane was left unbound to fall below his shoulders. His stance was one bred of confidence. Indeed, he was a man born to lead, she couldn’t help but cede.

  Was he a murderer, as well?

  The prospect made her throat tighten with fear.

  What would he do when he discovered her father wouldn’t deal with him?

  Page couldn’t even begin to make out their discourse, and then the one called Lagan left the MacKinnon’s side to jostle another man awake. He bent to whisper something into the man’s ear and that man rose at once, shaking off his slumber. Together the two spoke to the MacKinnon and then stumbled off into the shadowy realm beyond the fire’s light.

  Once they were gone, only Page and the MacKinnon remained awake.

  Starting by the realization, Page turned to look at him and gasped to find him standing so near, watching her, the firelight playing over his face, making his harsh features appear all the harsher for the contrasting shadows.

  She prayed he couldn’t see her where she sat, and was relieved when he turned and bent to retrieve something that lay beside the fire. But her relief was short-lived, for he pivoted suddenly and strode purposefully toward her.

  Reacting instinctively, Page slammed her head backward against the tree and swore a silent oath, closing her eyes, feigning sleep. Now she was being foolish. And she knew it, still couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t face the man just now. She didn’t know precisely why, she just couldn’t. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  He values you? the ghost of his voice whispered at her ear, and the question continued to torment her.

  His footfall was light, but Page could still make out the soft sound of moss surrendering beneath his leather-soled feet and she knew the instant he stood before her.

  Bare limbed.

  That thought accosted her from nowhere, and her heart gave a little start, beating a bit faster as he crouched down beside her—at least she imagined that he crouched, for she thought she felt the heat of his breath against her cheek.

  A soft, exasperated sigh blew across her face.

  Or did she imagine it?

  Mercy, was he watching her that closely?

  Her heart began to flounder, and she tried not to panic, tried to pretend he wasn’t hovering so close, scrutinizing her every breath, but she failed miserably. Because she knew he was there, and she was only grateful for the veil of darkness to conceal her face when she felt the telltale flush creep up her throat, warming her cheeks.

  And then suddenly her heart slammed to a halt, for then he touched her—and she couldn’t think straight for the way that he touched her.

  Her breath left her in a rush, and her body quivered as his hand cupped her face, the gesture so much a tender caress that it left Page completely breathless. Much to her own dismay, she leaned hungrily into the warmth of his hand, and then realized belatedly what she had done. Her eyes flew open wide and she drew in a breath, lifting her face to his.

  Their gazes met, held, locked.

  He didn’t remove his hand from before her face. He left it there, as though to beckon her back, and Page, although startled by the embrace, could scarce protest his nearness with the offensive rag still filling her mouth.

  Scarce could she breathe.

  Scarce could she think.

  With a gentleness that belied his strength and size, he brushed a thumb across the hollow above her cheek, and Page closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears anew.

  How inconceivable it was that this stranger—her captor—would be the very person ever to touch her so gently?

  “Dinna weep,” he whispered.

  Was she weeping? Page nearly choked on her denial. She hadn’t even realized.

  He removed the gag and brought it to his nostrils. She watched them flare at the stench and he glowered down at the rag, then tossed it away. Page swallowed with some difficulty. “Lagan,” he groused, and shook his head with a look of disgust.

  Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, although it wouldn’t have mattered, she wouldn’t have known what to say.

  So near, his face lost none of its masculine beauty. It held her mesmerized. But he seemed too young to lead so many men, despite that his hair proclaimed elsewise; dark as it was, the few hairs of white at his temples stood out distinctly against the black of his hair. How old was he? His youthful face declared four and twenty, no more, but his hair bespoke nearly two score years or more. His cheekbones were high, his nose perfectly aquiline, and his lips... ah, but those lips were the sort of lips to make a woman fancy of stolen kisses. And those eyes... she still couldn’t make out the color, though she tried.

  Her heart beat a steady rhythm in her ears—so loud, she thought he must hear it as well.

  “Ye’ve my word, lass, ye’ll no’ be harmed.” His voice was low and husky. “Dinna ye look so woeful.”

  He stroked her cheek, and confusion flooded her once again. Why was he being so gentle? How was she supposed to know how to deal with this?

  Page jerked her face away from his touch. “I—I am not woeful!”

  He arched a brow and lifted his hand abruptly and Page flinched, thinking he meant to strike her for the denial—as her father might have done—but he brought his thumb to his lips, instead, sinking his teeth there. Watching her, he tasted the salt of her tears. “Are ye no’?”

  A shiver coursed through Page
at the intimate gesture—the way he addressed her—the way he continued to stare. She tried to ignore the heat that suffused her under his scrutiny, taking refuge in her anger. “No. I am not.”

  “Of course you are not. You’re much too... fearless. Aye?”

  He withdrew his thumb from his mouth, and Page lapped at her lips suddenly gone dry. She swallowed convulsively.

  “In any case... ye’ve my word, lass... ye’ll no’ be harmed.”

  Closing her eyes, Page tried to blot out the image of him kneeling there before her. “How gracious of you,” she said, concealing a shiver. She opened her eyes, narrowing them, and her voice was steadier with her anger. “In the meantime, my hands are bruising at my back.”

  His lips hinted at a smile—the rogue—a smile that once again snatched her breath away and made her heart flitter wildly. Alas, it should have made her yearn to slap his face. Curse him for that as well. And her, too—for allowing herself to lose her composure over a comely face.

  Her wits must be addled for certain.

  “The bindings are necessary,” he told her without the slightest trace of remorse, “but verra well, I’ll grant ye a moment’s respite.” He fell back upon his rump, reaching behind her to free her hands.

  “How generous... for a heathen Scot!”

  He chuckled at that, and it multiplied her confusion tenfold. What was wrong with this man? Did he not realize he was supposed to be angered by her quips? Page wasn’t sure what to make of him—and less so by the instant.

  He released her hands, then slipped his fingers across the small of her back and Page squealed in alarm, arching away from his touch. “Sir! What do you think you are doing?”

  He didn’t bother to beg her pardon, or to remove his hand from her back. The heat of it burned straight through her shift.

  “You’re wet,” he said.

  “Am I really?” Page glared at him vengefully. “How peculiar! I wonder if ’tis because you abducted me wet from my swim... refused to allow me to dry... and then thrust me away in a damp corner far from the heat of the fire.”

  She tried to shrug away from his touch, but to no avail. “Remove your hand from my person this very instant!”