Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Ye dinna have to do it,” he murmured, “but you have my gratitude, lass.”

  For an instant Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, and then she dared ask, “Thankful enough to return me to my father?” She was desperate to be away from these people—desperate, because some crazy part of her wanted to hold fast to them and never let go. And all because of a simple song they’d shared together, at the request of a little boy.

  Foolish, foolish heart.

  For her own sake, Page needed to get away. Before she might be tempted to stay. That would never, never do because they didn’t truly want her—aye, they did for revenge, but as soon as that was satisfied, she’d be worth less than nothing to them.

  He hadn’t answered as yet, and some traitorous part of Page was terrified that he might agree to her request. Ludicrous, she realized, though nevertheless true. “Will you take me back?” she persisted.

  His answer was a sigh and a whisper in the darkness. “Nay, lass.”

  Page released the breath she’d not realized she’d held. Was it disappointment she felt? Relief? She didn’t know, and she didn’t argue with him, couldn’t find her voice to do so.

  The reed’s music faded, the haunting strains coming softer now.

  “When I heard him speak to you, and realized he was not mute, I assumed Malcom could not understand the English tongue,” she said with some annoyance.

  “Of course he understands,” he said. “I intend to teach him Latin, as well.”

  Her surprise was evident in her tone. “You speak Latin?”

  “D’ ye think it only an Englishman’s prerogative to know God’s tongue?” he asked her.

  Page bit into her lip to keep from revealing the lowering fact that she’d never been taught how to read at all. That he, a savage Scot, would know these things, and she did not, made her feel like the wretched waif she must appear.

  Then again, when had she ever felt like anything more than a poor relation? She should be used to it by now.

  She sensed, more than saw, him turn to face her. His movement tugged at her arm just a little, though not enough to wake Malcom, who was lying so peacefully upon it. Her arm was growing numb, but she didn’t care. There was something so sweet about having him sleep there.

  Something so right... and so breathtaking about lying next to his father.

  Iain. Angus had called him Iain. Page savored the name privately.

  Sheer foolishness, and still she stared, trying to spy the MacKinnon’s face through the shadows, her heart tripping against her breast. “He would not speak to me in my father’s house,” she yielded.

  For an instant he didn’t respond, and her breath quickened painfully as she waited to hear his voice again.

  “What would you have done in his place?” he asked her, after a moment.

  “Were I a child alone in the hands of strangers?” she asked softly. Her gaze shifted to the shadow of the child lying so quietly beside her. “I... I don’t know.”

  “He was afeared, is all.”

  “I... I might have been, too,” she confessed.

  “Are ye now, lass?”

  Page swallowed.

  “Afeared?”

  “Should I be?”

  “That I might hurt you?” he answered. “Nay. Ye dinna have to fear for that.”

  Something about the way his voice fluctuated, softened to a gruff whisper, sent Page’s heart skidding against her ribs. It mesmerized her, drugged her senses. He might have done anything to her in that instant and she wouldn’t have been the least prepared.

  “What is it I should fear?” she asked boldly, her heart beating faster.

  The silence between them was deafening as Page awaited his response.

  “That I might want ye,” he whispered, his voice deep and dark and silky.

  Page choked. “M-me?” she stammered. “Y-you? Nay!” she said breathlessly. “You couldn’t possibly.”

  He chuckled and reached out unerringly to seize her hand, drawing it toward him. It seemed to Page that her blood roared through her ears as he tugged her gently toward him, to place her hand upon his tunic, right atop the center of his chest. She was shocked unto death to find his heart beating rapidly, despite his calm appearance.

  Could she really affect him so? In her astonishment she forgot to wrench her hand away, and it rose and fell with his every breath.

  Dinna seem so surprised, lass,” he murmured softly, leaning closer.

  Page swallowed hard as she felt his presence move toward her in the darkness, closing the space between them, until his son’s body was all that kept them separated.

  Unreasonably, in that instant, Page wished his son were not sleeping so peacefully between them, for now she craved his father’s arms more than she’d ever craved anything in all her life. “I—” She stammered and forgot what it was she’d meant to say.

  “Aye, lass,” he swore, and his body shivered beneath her hand, giving evidence to his words. “If my son wasna lying between us... you’d have much to fear.”

  Page’s breath caught.

  Had he read her mind? Had she spoken her thoughts aloud? The blood quickened through her veins, but she was too shocked by his bold words to be afraid. She felt his gaze pierce her through the darkness, and dared to ask, her heart hammering fiercely, “What... is it... you would do?”

  “’Tis a dangerous question ye ask.”

  Page’s heart lurched. “You... you swore you would not hurt me,” she reminded him.

  He pressed her hand more fully against his chest, a charged stare shared between them. She blinked, as though coming aware suddenly of where her hand lay, and then jerked it away, flushing with embarrassment. How could she have been so brazen?

  He chuckled softly, and she lay back upon the breacan to stare with mortification into the feathery darkness, her breathing labored and her blush high—thankful for the shadows that concealed it.

  “G’nite, lass,” he whispered, a smile in his voice.

  Page couldn’t find her own voice to respond. She lay there, trying to determine what in creation had happened—how things had gone so awry.

  She’d gone into this night expecting to goad the MacKinnon into anger, to make him sorely regret her presence… and had ended up trying to goad him into taking her into his arms. What else could she have intended by asking him questions of such a nature?

  She’d also intended that his men should be so weary after a night of her relentless singing that they could scarce ride on the morrow. As it turned out, Page could hardly close her eyes. Every moment, she was acutely aware of the man and child lying so close beside her—of the ties at her wrist that kept her bound to him.

  She might have attempted to reposition Malcom’s head and work the bindings free, but she couldn’t bear to move the boy from where he lay. And then, when the MacKinnon turned abruptly in his sleep and drew her into an embrace that encompassed the three of them, she couldn’t bear to end the sweet sense of belonging. She closed her eyes, and vowed to savor every last second of this euphoria in her heart. Shielding herself from the cold, she dared to nestle deeper within the embrace.

  Tomorrow she could devote herself to escape…

  Tonight she needed this more than she did her next breath—if only for the night, she could pretend. Only sometime, deep in the night, sleep cruelly deprived her, and she slept.

  Chapter 12

  Somehow morning dawned colder than the night before.

  Page awoke, shivering. Her sense of emptiness returned. Misty sunlight shone into the glade, but that meager light was not enough to warm her stiff bones, and the overcast day promised a freezing rain that was certain to make the stiffness eternal.

  She had to find a way to escape today.

  There must be some way to evade them... somehow...

  The MacKinnon had risen, leaving her free of her bindings. So, too, had his son, leaving her to sleep alone upon the breacan. She felt a chill as she lay there alone; her arm now
naked where the fetters once dug into her skin…where his own arm had kept her warm, though they’d scarcely touched. She hadn’t even felt the bindings come undone, how deep and contented she must have slept.

  Well, she berated herself. What had she expected? A morning kiss from the mighty MacKinnon? A waking hug from his son? Hardly. They were not her family, she reminded herself. They were her gaolers, naught more—no matter that they’d shared a sweet moment the night before. It meant naught. Less than naught.

  Save to her, it seemed.

  Last night had filled her with a sense of belonging so keen and so beautiful that this morning she could only mourn its loss.

  Page closed her eyes and shielded her face from the morning light with an arm thrown across her eyes. If she willed herself back... she could still feel the tendrils of warmth and affection squeezing at her heart.

  Certainly the warmth that sidled through her this morn had naught to do with his wicked promises. Her cheeks burned at the mere memory of where her hand had been—upon his chest.

  He’d said he wanted her. God have mercy upon her soul, for some part of her had been ready to cast herself into his arms, for merely the promise of affection, when she should have recoiled over the insinuation.

  Was she so starved for affection that she was willing to seek it, even at the risk of her own ruination?

  It seemed so.

  She sighed then, and sat, nettled by the turn of her thoughts, for she knew what a futile gesture it would be. She wasn’t part of this family. She wasn’t part of any family. A few whispers in the dark weren’t going to change anything at all.

  But her father wanted her back, she reminded herself, hope surging again. At any cost, she must find a way to return to her sire.

  Leaning back against a tree, Page hugged her knees to her breast, watching the MacKinnon huddle together with his men. They spoke urgently in their own tongue, and she wondered what it was they discussed. She didn’t ponder it very long, however, for she spied Malcom then, standing next to a tree, with his back to her, rocking from foot to foot.

  Poor wretched child, she thought. He seemed sad somehow this morn, his shoulders drooping, his head down, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of his mother after last night. Page couldn’t forget the wistful way he’d spoken of her. There had been no complaint in his voice, merely truth, and yet the sadness with which he’d spoken of the mother he’d never known had wrenched at Page’s heart. She knew firsthand how difficult it could be to grow up without a mother—or a father, but that was another story entirely.

  Her mother hadn’t wanted her, had ensconced herself within a nunnery after her birth—shamed by the sight of her, her father had said. Page sighed. To this day she suffered guilt over it. ’Twas no wonder her father scorned her so, for ’twas said that he’d loved her mother more than life itself.

  And Page had driven her away.

  What had she done? Wailed too much? Had she been too demanding? She must have been a difficult child—certainly her father had said so often enough.

  And still it plagued her.

  What might she have done differently?

  Her brows drew together at the self-defeating vein of thought. What was done was done, she knew, and she couldn’t alter the course of her life now. Her mother was dead—had perished in the nunnery long ago of some fever of the lungs.

  The best Page could do now was make peace with her father, and the sooner she returned to Aldergh, the sooner she could begin.

  A fresh wash of anger flowed through her.

  Stealing a glance at the one to whom it was directed, she wondered if the tales told of him were true, that he’d murdered his own wife. Somehow, she didn’t think so. For as little as she knew of the man, he didn’t strike her as a murderer of innocent women. But then... Her brows drew together. Mayhap his wife had not been innocent.

  In any case, ’twas quite certain the MacKinnon had had plenty of opportunity to harm Page already if he’d wished to do so, and yet he had not so much as lifted a finger against her in anger.

  Although he may have wished to last night.

  Page couldn’t suppress a vengeful smile at the thought of her rebelliousness. She would have given much to have spied the MacKinnon’s face when she’d first screamed her song into his ear—and then his glower when he couldn’t get her to stop. Unable to keep herself from it, she indulged in a private giggle, and then bit her lip to sober herself.

  He was a dangerous man, she knew.

  So why didn’t she feel herself more afeared?

  She frowned at that, and then contemplated his reaction to her defiance. Although she had feared his reaction beforehand, she couldn’t help but think his frustration rather humorous this morning—curious too, for a man such as the MacKinnon, whose legendary prowess upon the field of battle preceded him. As did his cruel reputation. There weren’t many in the northlands—nay, in all of England—who had not heard the tale of his poor wife’s demise. ’Twas said that he’d tossed her out from the tower window the very morning of his son’s birth, that he’d had no more use for her. She’d borne him his son, and that was all he’d required from her.

  ’Twas also said that his influence in the Highlands rivaled that of King David—that in truth, the Highlanders looked to the MacKinnon for leadership, and that it sat sorely with David of Scotland.

  Perhaps that was why David stole Malcom and awarded the boy to the English court—mayhap to control the father?

  Pondering the thought, Page rose and determined to lift little Malcom’s spirits. He’d allowed her to soothe him last eve; mayhap he would again. Later in the day, she would be gone from their presence, she hoped, though for now, mayhap she could make a difference in the little boy’s mood. Mayhap she could make him see that he could and would endure. She certainly had.

  As Page neared the boy, she realized he was singing to himself, and her heart twisted painfully as a vague memory came back to her, a dizzying whirlwind vision of herself lying within a golden field of grain, staring up as great tufts of white puffy clouds floated across a pale blue sky. She was singing herself a lullaby.

  “Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee laddie,” he sang, in his lilting Scots brogue, bringing Page back. “When ye’re a man, ye shall follow your daddy...”

  Page smiled at his song, and the way that he swayed to the time.

  “Lift me a coo, and a goat and a wether,” he continued, and just then Page reached him, and put her hand upon his back, letting him know that she was there with comfort if he would only accept it. He stopped singing abruptly, and peered up at her over his shoulder, his little face screwing into a frown.

  Page noticed he was holding something beneath his tunic, but she was unable to see it for the bulk of his breacan. She thought he might be hiding something from her, and wondered what it might possibly be. Her father had said they were a thieving lot, the Scots. Frowning, she reached back to seize the end of her plait and brought it about to be certain she still owned the only valuable thing she had to her name—the braided gold cord she’d pilfered from her father’s cloak and now used to bind her hair. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was still there, adorning her gnarled tresses, like a strand of gold in a bird’s nest. Again she frowned, and cast another glance at the MacKinnon, assuring herself that she didn’t care if he found her wanting.

  She returned her attention to Malcom, her curiosity piqued. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He was still peering up at her, his little brows drawn together in an adorable little frown. He seemed to be considering how best to answer, and then said, “Painting.”

  Page’s brows lifted. “Painting?” she asked with some surprise. “Oh, I see.” The rascal, he was too shy to show his artwork. She smiled, and knelt at his back, hoping to coax him into bringing the art piece out from under his tunic. His gaze followed her down, and his little face remained screwed in a wary frown. “Might I see your painting?” she asked softly, c
oaxing him as she would a shy pup. “I very, very much like to paint myself,” she told him truthfully, and then waited patiently for him to decide.

  “Weel,” he said, twisting his little lips as he considered. “I suppose ye can,” he yielded, and then started to fiddle with something beneath his tunic. Page smiled in triumph, and then to her horror, watched as he began to pee upon the ground. “See,” he said, with some pride, lifting a finger to point at the wet dirt before him. It was only then Page noticed that part of the ground was already damp.

  “There’s horns,” he pointed out with delight, “and there’s eyes. I’m doin’ ’is nose now.” And then he groaned in complaint, when his stream ended abruptly, “but I ne’er can finish ‘cause I always run out!” He turned to look at her then, wrinkling his forehead in childish disgust.

  Page knelt behind him in open-mouthed shock, her face flaming. She didn’t know what to say.

  “’Tis... quite... lovely,” she stammered, and then screeched in fright when the MacKinnon came and placed a hand upon her shoulder. She shrugged free of his touch, leaping to her feet.

  Malcom peered up at his father, his smile suddenly beatific once more. “Halloo, Da!” he said, beaming. “I was showin’ Page my goat.”

  “Were ye now?” the MacKinnon asked, frowning, and then he turned to look at her, his scowl deepening.

  Page took a defensive step backward. “I... I... I didn’t realize,” she said at once, stammering over her words. She shook her head in horror. “I... I would never have interrupted—I-I never imagined!”

  The MacKinnon peered over his son’s shoulder at the ground before his son’s feet, his brows drawn together.

  Malcom shrugged. “She asked to see my goat, Da, but it wasna finished,” his son explained, eyeing Page as though she’d suddenly gone daft.

  The MacKinnon’s stern face broke into a grin suddenly. He turned to Page and said, looking much as though he would break into hoots and howls of laughter, “He’s a boy, what can I say?”

  Malcom was still staring up at his father, frowning. “But, Da,” he complained, “I dinna get to finish—again!” And then he turned to Page and declared, “Sometimes me and my Da match to see who can pee the farthest.”