Her emotions rose to choke her, and her tears, unbidden, began to course down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop them, for the MacKinnon’s son rode before him in the saddle.
Her father had dealt with them.
He wanted her back!
Her stomach lurched and she was so relieved, she thought she might be ill. Swiping the telltale wetness from her cheeks, Page bounded to her feet to face the MacKinnon, laughter bubbling up from the depths of her.
Sweet, sweet Mary! Her father wanted her back.
She stood tall, for she felt invulnerable with that knowledge, warmed like never before, exhilarated, as though she were soaring to the heights of Heaven with joy.
Until the MacKinnon turned his gaze upon her…
The look he sent made her shiver. His stance was rigid in the saddle, the muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched, and his amber-gold eyes pierced her as surely as a Welshman’s arrow. She couldn’t have torn her gaze away had she tried.
Ach, she was weeping.
Inexplicable anger mounted within Iain.
She wasn’t his concern, he reminded himself.
The best he could do was release her and be along his merry way.
So why did he feel like pivoting his mount about, calling her father down from the ramparts, and running his blade through the varlet’s black heart?
The moment she’d spied Malcom sitting before him, her eyes lit with joy. Not a trace of avenging pride. And relief, he spied a little of that, as well. His heart squeezed him painfully, for it occurred to him, then, just what it was she thought. She assumed her father had bargained for her return.
Worthless swine. He should have bargained for her return.
He didn’t have the heart to tell the lass the truth.
How could he tell her that her feckless Da had given her the greatest of insults? That he couldn’t have cared one whit what was done to her now—that he certainly hadn’t want her returned? He’d sworn, even, to rip out her tongue? What manner of father said that?
Nay, but he couldn’t do it; couldn’t bring himself to break her heart.
How could FitzSimon?
Her hopeful expression was Iain’s undoing. Or mayhap ’twas simply the memory of how she’d spoken so heroically of the father who so plainly didn’t care for her.
It turned his stomach, made him feel things he had no cause to feel.
She came forward slowly, looking more fragile than Iain recalled, and it was all he could do to wipe the disgust from his face. With mere words he thought he might break her in twain. He pictured her lying, weeping at his feet, her spirit completely broken, and the image both anguished and angered him both at once.
Nay, he couldn’t tell her.
“You...” She choked on her words. “You’ll take me home now?” Her eyes were bright and full of hope, her voice soft.
Iain’s heart squeezed a little harder. He wanted in that instant to draw her into his arms, to soothe her, kiss her fears away, smooth the worries from her brow. By the same token, he wanted to shake her violently and tell her that her father was a poor example of a father and she didn’t need him.
FitzSimon’s daughter was the last thing Iain needed in his life. She was a troublesome lass who was like to turn the rest of his hair gray before the year was done, but he found himself compelled to save her feelings despite this fact.
Unfortunately, he knew only one way to do so.
Not truly understanding why he was compelled to, he said, “Nay. I’ll not.”
Her brows drew together in confusion, and she straightened where she stood. “What do you mean, you will not?”
His jaw clenched, and he said, “Just what I said, lass. I’ll not be returning you to your father.” His voice lacked the heat of anger, but she didn’t seem to notice in her rising temper, and Iain thought she looked stronger armed with fury.
Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and outrage. “But he returned your son,” she pointed out.
Iain placed his hand upon Malcom’s back. “That he did,” he agreed, and glanced about at his men, meeting their gazes, one by one. Their astonishment was more than evident in their countenances, but he apprised them silently not to gainsay him. Though in truth, Iain didn’t think they would have been capable, even had they wanted to. Auld Angus’s jaw slackened near to his belly, and if Iain had not been so angry, he might have found the auld codger’s expression comical. His gaze returned to FitzSimon’s daughter.
She was becoming infuriated now, and he welcomed it, knowing she would need her rage to sustain her.
“But my father kept his end of the bargain,” she shouted at him. Iain merely nodded, but his jaw worked. “You would renege upon your word, sir?”
“Apparently so,” Iain lied without compunction.
“But, Papa,” Malcom whispered, peering up in surprise. Iain shushed him with a glance and a pat upon the back.
“How dare you!” she railed. “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Verra simple,” Iain told her, meeting her gaze. “An eye for an eye, lass. Your Da conspired in the takin’ o’ my son. ’Tis only meet I should return the favor in kind.”
“You are a madman!”
Iain thought perhaps it was true. His men all nodded, attesting to the fact, “That I may be,” he said with a frown. “Nonetheless, you’ll be coming along wi’ us.”
“But my father!” she exclaimed.
“Your father can lick my boots.”
Chapter 6
“You’ll be sorry. He’ll hunt you down!” Page swore.
She couldn’t believe it what was happening.
Torn between disbelief that her father would risk the king’s wrath to have her back and sheer joy that he’d done so—she was nevertheless furious with the man seated before her. He dared to break his pact with her father when for the first time in her life it seemed her father valued her. He wanted her—and this miscreant would rob her of that joy.
Not if she could help it.
She glanced about and found his men all staring at their laird, their expressions as shocked as her own must appear. Their stupor gave her the opening she needed. She didn’t care how many of his men surrounded her. She had absolutely no intentions of going with them peacefully. Somehow or another, she was returning to her father and they’d have to kill her to stop her.
Without giving them warning of her intent, or time to consider her response, she turned, found an opening behind her, and made a frantic dash into the forest.
She heard the MacKinnon’s curse behind her.
Page didn’t dare slow her step, even as the sounds of pursuit began in earnest, nor did she look back to see that they were following. She ran with all her might, slipping through the woods with the ease of one who knew them so intimately.
And then suddenly her hem snagged upon a gnarled tree root. She muttered an oath, trying to jerk it free, and those precious lost seconds were to her misfortune. Within the instant, she was surrounded by scowling Scotsmen. And then once again she was confronted by the MacKinnon, his son no longer in the saddle before him.
He dismounted, his expression black as he came toward her. Page thought he might strike her, so purposeful was his stride, but he didn’t. And she didn’t cower as he reached out, although he merely seized her hem and jerked it free, then stood staring at her furiously. “You’re going to make me sorely regret this.”
Page smiled fiercely. “I surely will,” she vowed, drawing herself up to her full height. Again it struck her how tall the man was, for she reached only to his chin, and she was not, by any means, diminutive. In truth, her father had always thought her much too long limbed for a woman.
“I should let you go,” he swore, his jaw working angrily.
Page’s brows lifted, for he truly seemed to be considering the prospect. “You should?”
“Aye,” he said, “and count myself fortunate that you’re gone, but I won’t!”
He wished to let her g
o? But he wouldn’t? Page didn’t understand. “Nay?”
“Nay!”
Her heart hammered wildly over the faint suspicion that reared. “Why not?”
“Because my Da raised himself a rattlebrained fool!” he swore “That’s why!” And if his pronouncement hadn’t been shocking enough, he lifted her up suddenly, as though she were no more than a sack of grain, and bore her back to his mount, flinging her unceremoniously across his saddle.
Page shrieked in outrage, and then gasped as the air was driven from her lungs. Without preamble, he mounted behind her, holding her fast with an arm, and then lifted her up to scoot her forward, pinioning her to his lap with the inescapable strength of his arm. Mercy! The man must be made of stone, unyielding as he was.
“You will sorely regret this,” Page said. “I will see to it with every waking breath I take.” How dare the brute treat her as though she were nothing more than chattel to be absconded with at his will. How dare he keep her from her father. She couldn’t bear it. All her life she’d waited for this moment, prayed for it, only to lose it by a twist of fate. “I will plague you every instant of your miserable life!” she vowed.
“I have no doubt of that,” he said tightly, spurring his mount. “Gather your belongings,” he commanded his men. “We leave at once!”
To Page’s consternation, it took them very little time to gather their possessions. Barbarians that they were, they traveled with little more than the breacans they wore belted about their bodies. Quite literally they were away within minutes.
Page refused to allow herself to feel defeated.
For all of her twenty years she had fended for herself. If it was the last thing she ever did, she was going to find her way home. In the meantime, she fully intended to keep her word. The MacKinnon, indeed, was going to be a miserable man.
* * *
Spring came late to the northern reaches.
Biding her time, observing the differences in the landscape as they traveled northward, Page tried not to think of the risk her father had taken on her behalf. What would King Henry do to him once he discovered that her father gave up the boy for her? And then he’d promptly lost her, as well?
Why hadn’t he sent men to see to her return?
How could he have trusted the word of a Scotsman?
Curse the MacKinnon, the ignoble wretch!
The trees now were less abundant with foliage. A few were lush with new green growth; some sprouted new leaves that reminded Page of feathers. Some trees were still bare, yet to be touched by God’s masterful hand and miraculous paint.
She had always loved the beauty of the land.
A wildling, her father often called her. But it didn’t matter; it had never disturbed her overmuch that he’d thought so, for she’d always felt more as though she were Nature’s child than his, in truth. It was the only time she ever felt truly whole—when she was at one with God’s earth. That was the very reason she’d stolen away from the castle all those many nights, to give her soul a bit of peace.
But it was also the reason she was in this predicament.
Page frowned as she thought of the man seated so intimately at her back. She’d managed to shut him out of her thoughts for most of the morning. Only when he so arrogantly drew her back against him did she deign to acknowledge him, elbowing him and shrugging free to sit forward once again. The more distance she was able to place between them, the more at ease she felt.
Now, again, he drew her back against him and she wrenched forward yet again, turning to glare at him. “Do you mind overmuch?” she asked, exasperated. “You can force me to ride well nigh in your lap, if you will, but you cannot force me to abide your touch.”
“Suit yourself, vixen.” She felt his sigh more than heard it. “You’ve a sour-mouth, if e’er I heard one.”
“Truly?” she asked sweetly, mocking him. “I do wonder why that could be.”
“’Tis likely you were simply born that way,” he answered uncharitably.
Page felt like turning and slapping his arrogant face. “Nay, though you’re a mean brute,” she returned. “And you must realize my father will come after us,” she apprised him. “He does not like to be thwarted, I assure you.”
For an instant he didn’t respond, and Page could almost feel his tension mounting at her back. “Will he?” he answered, after a moment. She thought he might have been contemplating the possibility. Good. She hoped he was considering all the repercussions of his actions, and fearing for his life. Neither her father nor King Henry would stand for his perfidy.
“Sit back, lass,” he commanded, but not so unkindly. He drew her back once more, this time pinning her with a hand against his chest.
Page struggled against the unwelcome embrace. “Arrrghhh!”
“You’ll end up lame riding in that unlimber position. Rest yourself awhile. I willna bite, lass.”
“I don’t believe you,” Page said through clenched teeth, sinking her nails into the arm that held her like plaster to his massive frame. “Mercy, but you’re a brute!” she said when he would not budge. Neither did he seem to be affected by the forward pressure she was inflicting upon his arm. Rather he sat there in stony silence, and it was as though he felt nothing at all. With a disgruntled sigh, she relented, allowing herself to slacken against him, although she could not, by any means, rest.
“That’s it,” he said, whispering his approval into her ear.
Page tried to ignore the shiver that swept down her spine at the solicitous tone of his voice. They rode in silence awhile more.
“You havena spoken all the morn,” he said low, his voice like warm silk against her face, soft and soothing. She reminded herself that he was a faithless Scot, not some overly attentive beau who cared for her well-being. “I dinna mean to aggrieve you, lass.”
And still her heart hammered. “Did you not?” Page asked, hiding her confusion behind anger.
His chest expanded with another sigh. He released it, and it blew across the pate of Page’s head. The feel of it gave her gooseflesh. But he didn’t answer.
Page wasn’t about to let him lapse into silence so easily now that he had breached it. He’d provoked her well enough. “What, prithee, did you mean to do? And what would you have me do? Laugh hysterically because I’ve been abducted by a barbarian Scot? Converse with you over the wonders of Christendom? I hardly think so, sir!”
His answering chuckle surprised her. Low and rich, it rumbled against her back. “You’re a saucy one, for certain.”
Page bristled. “So I’ve been told. Do not think I mean to apologize for it, either.”
“Temper, temper,” he reproved, clucking his tongue at her. “Tell me, then, lass... what wonders might we converse over were ye amenable to conversing?”
“Hah!” Page exclaimed. “With you? I should think I would never be amenable—and cease, if you will, to call me lass! It—” Confused her. “Disturbs me,” she said petulantly.
He chuckled once again, flustering her all the more, and then he bent closer to say against her ear. “Verra well, lass, then simply tell me what ye would have me call you instead.”
Page’s nerves were near to shattering. “Do not call me anything at all.” She shrugged away, moving as far forward as was physically possible. Only then did she realize he hadn’t been holding her any longer. How long now since he’d released her? How could she not have noticed? Had she lain against him contentedly all this time? “Forsooth, I would have you cease to speak to me at all!”
“Rest, then, and I’llna trouble ye further, lass.”
“But I’ve no wish to rest!”
“Then you do wish to converse?”
Page thought she detected a smile in his voice. She jerked her head around to catch his smug expression and said, “Nay, I do not.”
“Ach, lass, make up your mind,” he complained, and Page clenched her teeth and tried to convince herself not to slap the arrogant smile from his sinfully beautiful mouth.
/> “I asked you not to—”
That word. The way he said it threatened to melt the chains protecting her heart.
“I know, I know, 'lass,' but ye havena said what I should call—”
“My name is none of your concern!” Page assured him.
He smiled then, flashing perfect white teeth. “Verra well, lass. If you will.”
He was using the word now only to spite her—Page was sure of it.
“Mary!” she lied, trying not to note the boyish dimple that appeared. “My name is Mary!” She turned about, averting her gaze, more than a little rattled by his too easy manner.
Wasn’t an abductor supposed to be cruel rather than winning? Why should he bother over her comforts, or her preferences, for that matter? “Are you pleased now?” she asked. “You can call me Mary.”
Chapter 7
Of all the names she might have spouted, Mairi was the last name Iain expected to hear. He’d been unprepared for the sound of it upon her lips.
By the stone, nothing else she might have said could have spurred him into silence more swiftly. He’d been determined to melt the icy walls surrounding her, win her over to his people. The last thing they needed was a bitter woman to burden them. They’d already had one of those to contend with.
Mairi.
Even these six years later, they were still reeling with the legacy she’d left.
What would he tell Malcom the day his son should ask of his mother’s death?
Iain didn’t know. But he wasn’t certain he could ever speak of it easily, for the memory of that morning tormented him more than anything in all his life. He could scarce think of that high window without suffering a sweat and his knees turning as soft as boiled meal.
His wife had loathed him so very much.
Even wee Malcom hadn’t been enough to keep her.
Sweat beaded upon his forehead, and he closed his eyes, warding away the image of her standing before the tower window. The vision passed before his eyes in a flash of white-hot pain.
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