There was an undeniable air of authority about his father, one the man wore with unaffected ease, and an air of total acceptance from his men.
Yet, he obviously did not oppress them, else the giant beside her would not be aiding her as he was. ’Twas evident by the way that he looked at his laird that he did so only because he meant to do him a favor. He seemed to think he was protecting the MacKinnon—and did so rather vehemently, Page thought.
Who would protect her from the MacKinnon? she wondered irritably.
Aye, she’d already determined that he’d never harm her, but what of her heart?
She was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t comprehend, even though she knew it was a dangerous longing. And still she couldn’t stop herself from yearning.
For what? The promise of sweet whispers? The gentle touch of his hand?
His love? she thought with self-disdain.
It was growing more and more difficult to keep her eyes from wandering in his direction. Particularly so given his meager state of dress. The short tunic and wayward breacan exposed a nigh bare thigh as he rode. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the wind so oft lifted the blanket. Page tried not to look—she truly did—but she could scarce keep herself from it, for the beauty of the man stole her breath away.
She swallowed at the memory of them lying so close together upon his breacan... the way he’d taken her hand and placed it against his chest... and her throat feeling suddenly raw.
They’d known each other only a measly few days. The MacKinnon was her enemy. Her kidnapper. So why did she continue to hesitate to drop the cloth in her hand, even with the behemoth nearly breathing down her neck?
Aye, she wanted arms around her. What was so wrong with that? Certainly she wasn’t the only woman who had been so inclined? Why was it that a man could want these things but a woman should not?
She stole a glance at the MacKinnon, just as the wind whipped, lifting his breacan and tunic yet again. Her breath caught and her heart began to thump against her ribs. Like warm spiced mead, heat slid through her.
Of a certain, he was the only man who had ever made her feel...
She closed her eyes and lifted her hand, caressing the bared flesh at her throat, imagining his hand settled there instead...
He was the first man ever to have such an affect on her… the first whose touch she’d ever craved... the first man who’d ever wanted her for his own, or so he said...
Aye, and she wanted him to want her, but it wasn’t his love she yearned for, she told herself. She was no dog to go begging for affection, but a woman who knew she had naught more waiting for her at home than a cold, barren room and curt responses from her father.
She wanted Iain, she admitted to herself.
And she wanted him to want her.
Her enemy.
Her eyes flew open. She looked about anxiously, praying no one had spied her at her wicked musings, her cheeks flaming with mortification. And her gaze settled upon the man who had so easily and without trying had invaded her every thought.
He was wholly unaware of her.
He rode with his son, oblivious to the workings of Page’s treacherous mind. Her brows drew together, and she nibbled the inside of her lip. What a fool she was.
He didn’t want her, she berated herself.
Whatever possessed her to believe him when he’d said he did? The man riding before her could have any woman he chose. Page was no man’s choice.
Not even her own father wanted her.
Which left her to wonder ... whatever had Broc meant when he’d said the MacKinnon felt compelled to save her from her Da? She stole a glance at the behemoth riding along beside her. He willna be rid o’ ye so easily, I swear by the stone, she heard him say to her again, and she blinked. Her father? Her father wouldn’t be rid of her so easily? A feeling of unease sidled through her.
She was desperate to find a way to escape.
* * *
Iain placed a hand to his son’s shoulder, squeezing gently, with a desperation that belied the reassurance of his touch. “Try to remember, Malcom...”
For a long instant there was silence between them, as Malcom tried to do as was bade of him. “I canna, Da,” he answered unhappily. “I only remember wakin’ up.” His son peered up at him, and his little brows were drawn together in a frown.
“Wi’ David?”
His answer was a child’s soft murmur.
“Weel, then, son, dinna fash yourself. ’Tis no failing o’ yours ye canna recall.”
Malcom nodded, and Iain asked, “They dinna hurt you, did they?”
Malcom shook his head.
“Guid,” Iain said. If he discovered elsewise, he would have to turn his mount about and strangle the first Sassenach neck he encountered. “Tell me one more time, son... and I willna trouble ye with it for a while more... Tell me precisely what you remember about that night.”
“I only remember eating... then I was sleepy,” he said.
“Who was eating wi’ ye, d’ ye remember that much?”
“Ummm... auld Angus?”
He sounded so uncertain that Iain had to wonder how much of the sleeping drogue they had given him. ’Twas a wonder they’d not killed him. His anger mounted once more, although no one could have suspected by the ease of his posture. Only the muscle ticking at his jaw, as he listened to his son, gave testament to his fury. “I know aboot Angus... Anyone else, son?”
“Maggie,” Malcom declared. “And Glenna—and Broc.”
Most every man had been with Iain, save for Angus and Broc, he reflected. And Lagan. Lagan had been brawling again with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. His cousin had long ago taken a liking to the dun-haired lass, but MacLean had sworn he’d never trust another of his lasses to MacKinnon men. Iain couldn’t say as he blamed the man. Mairi’s death had not been by his own hands, but the fault lay upon his shoulders. He should have known. He should have stopped her somehow. And he might have done so, had he not been holding their son.
Malcom. He’d long grieved for his boy, for she’d abandoned him. He loathed her for that—and for leaving him with her blood upon his hands.
As far as auld mon MacLean was concerned, Iain was her murderer, for he had been the last to see her alive and he had been the one at the window, while his daughter’s body lay sprawled upon the jagged rocks below. Any chance for peace had been crushed along with Mairi that day.
In truth, looking at it through MacLean’s eyes, it didn’t matter much whether Iain pushed her from that window, or whether he’d merely driven her to it. He was responsible either way, and were Iain in MacLean’s shoes, he didn’t think he’d give another daughter to settle any forsaken feud.
No matter how many times he mulled it over, even to his own mind, Iain was guilty. Somehow, he’d failed Mairi. He didn’t know what it was he’d done to drive her out that tower window, but he must have done something.
Something.
He hadn’t loved her precisely. She’d been much too reserved with her own affections for that, a young lass thrown into a situation not at all of her choosing, but he’d cared for her nonetheless. And he’d wanted to love her. There just hadn’t been enough time.
What had he done to drive her from that window?
In the beginning, the need to know had driven him nearly mad. It tormented him still. He must have done something, but he couldn’t remember ever treating her unkindly. He’d set out to woo her, but he’d failed miserably. To this day, the image of her standing before the tower window haunted him—hair mussed, eyes wild, and that slightly off-kilter smile that made the hairs upon his nape stand on end even after all this time.
He shuddered, willing away the graven image, and asked his son, “And ye dinna recall going to bed? Or waking up in the night?”
“Nay, Da,” he answered dejectedly. “I dinna recall.”
Iain ruffled his son’s hair. “Dinna worry yourself aboot it.”
From what Maggie had t
old him, Malcom had fallen asleep at the table, over his haggis—not surprising when the boy would do anything to keep from having to eat his pudding. Maggie tried to wake him, and upon finding him truly asleep, had carried him to his bed. Feeling drowsed herself, she’d never made it out of Malcom’s room. She’d dozed while telling him a story, and she’d slept sitting beside the bed, her head pillowed within her arms. It was only in the morn, after she’d passed auld Angus still asleep at table, slumped over his plate, that she’d begun to suspect something was amiss. Glenna had fallen asleep in the kitchen, Malcom was nowhere to be found, and no one had witnessed a thing. What Iain wanted to know... almost as much as who... was how they’d managed to drogue the entire household with no one the wiser.
He surely intended to find out.
It occurred to him suddenly that he couldn’t call Page Maggie. Ach, but two Maggies in one household would be one too many. He’d have to think of another name. He was quite certain she couldn’t be enamored of Page, but how to broach the issue without offending her... Or mayhap he wouldn’t broach it at all, he’d simply call her by whatever new name he decided upon. If she objected, he would have to set about finding her another, until he found one she preferred.
When had he made the decision to keep her? he wondered.
It didn’t take a soothsayer to know; he didn’t need the battle of wills—nor was she a beast of burden for her fate to be decided upon so easily, and yet those were precisely the reasons he wasn’t about to let her go. Somehow, it had become crucial to him that she not be hurt any more than she was already. And if she discovered her father didn’t want her...
He frowned. The lass still harbored hope that he would come after her—the swine. He spied hope upon her face, and in the way she turned so often to peer behind them. As though searching for him. Iain almost wished the cur would pursue them, so she wouldn’t be disappointed.
So that he might cast his blade into the scoundrel’s stone-cold heart.
He’d thought to have the opportunity when they’d found Ranald’s body, but Iain had seen no sign of FitzSimon’s party since then. In truth, he hadn’t even then, save for the evidence of Ranald’s body. But if not FitzSimon, who had gotten to Ranald?
Who would have motive?
The possibility that one of his own might be responsible made his gut turn. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. Something lay at the edge of his thoughts, something, although he couldn’t quite capture it. Every time he came close, he heard the ghost of the lass’ song in his ears.
Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee lammie...
Where had he heard the lay before?
Whose voice was it that haunted him?
The memory escaped him.
On the other hand, he was intensely aware of the woman riding at his flank—of every glance she gave him, every move she made.
And aye, he was aware, too, that she was dropping those scraps. He’d spied her at her mischief just about the time Broc had. Iain hadn’t confronted her because the matter he’d been discussing with Malcom was far more important. And just in case she managed an escape, he fully intended to go back after the scraps tonight—gather just enough to thwart her. Her scheme wasn’t going to help her any at all.
And he intended to discover what Broc was up to. The lad was the very last person Iain might have suspected of disloyalty, but the evidence was there before him. Iain had thought at first that Broc meant to confront her, though even after their heated discourse, she continued to drop her scraps. Whatever his reason, Broc was aiding her. That much was plain to see.
Conspicuous as well were her continued glances toward Iain. The look of yearning in the depths of those overwise brown eyes squeezed at his heart. It wasn’t Iain she coveted, he mused, but the affection between Malcom and himself. He sensed that even as he sensed the heat of her gaze upon him, and more than he wished to confess, he felt the overwhelming desire to take her into his arms, and soothe away her pain.
Emotions warred within him.
If she didn’t cease to look at him with such obvious longing, he wasn’t too certain he was going to be able to restrain himself. He was only a man, after all, a man gone too long without a woman. It was becoming more and more difficult to recall himself to the fact that it wasn’t him she desired, but something else he couldn’t give her. He didn’t have it in him to give. Once he had thought to open his heart, but now it was sealed tighter than a tomb.
And yet she drew him still.
She was lovely, aye, but there was something more…
It’d been a long time since he’d felt so utterly distracted by a lass. Not even Mairi had affected him so. His wife had been lovely, but her heart had been poisoned against him. Loving her had been a duty. Wanting her had been unthinkable.
But he wanted FitzSimon’s daughter.
His warning to her last night had not solely been to distract her, and the effect her glances were having upon him was painful. He might have been blind and still sensed her presence. Like a man thirsting for water, and maddened by its scent upon the air, he was on edge.
He turned to find her staring, and his blood began to simmer. Brazen thing that she was, she held his gaze, her dark eyes smoldering.
His heartbeat quickened.
Or was it his own yearning he saw mirrored there in the fathomless depths of her eyes?
Suddenly her eyes sparkled with challenge—or mayhap defiance—and she snapped the reins, urging Ranald’s mount toward him. Iain turned away, recognizing the battle to come, knowing it would be near impossible to watch her approach, anticipate her, and still keep his reason when she confronted him.
For someone who was supposed to be a hapless hostage, she behaved more like a haughty queen, snapping rebukes to Broc, and sending daggers with those lovely eyes. Mostly in his direction and Iain could scarce keep from grinning at the thought.
And then he sighed, for those beautiful, wide brown eyes of hers were too expressive for her own good.
Chapter 16
It was the look upon his face that provoked Page—that arrogant twist of his lips that made her feel as though he mocked her somehow.
What could he possibly know? The cur! Certainly not that she was dropping the scraps of cloth—else he would have put an end to it long ere now.
And lest he be a sorcerer, nor could he possibly have divined where her mind wandered. Her thoughts were hers, and hers alone to contend with, and if her cheeks were high with color, ’twas simply because the wretched man had driven them forward, ever forward, never stopping, never resting. She was weary. And she had to do the necessary, besides—ever since after noon.
Page hadn’t complained even the first time, determined as she was not to speak to a one of them. She’d long since determined that Broc was a flea-bitten moron. Scarce had he spoken a kind word to her all day long, and his only saving grace was that he fiercely loved his little Merry Bells. She’d be willing to wager that he even slept with the beast—wouldn’t doubt it was where he’d managed to catch his fleas. And she was nearly certain he had fleas now. Just to be sure she didn’t fall heir to a few, she edged her mount away from him, and tried not to be overly amused when he bragged to Kerwyn about the animal’s keen intellect. Kerwyn, for his part, ignored her. He listened to Broc’s boasts with half an ear, and an enduring smile that suggested he’d heard the tales before.
And then there was Angus. Angus was an addle-pated old fool, staring at her as he did so oft—as though she were some confounded riddle to be deciphered. He unsettled her—nigh as much as his laird did. Her only comfort lay in the fact that he obviously thought the MacKinnon all the more daft, for the looks he cast in Iain’s direction were decidedly bemused.
And the MacKinnon... She’d already determined how he made her feel.
Confused.
Hopeful.
Intrigued.
And she’d be hanged before she’d let him know it.
Her patience at an end, she snapped the
reins, spurring poor Ranald’s mount toward the lead rider. She headed straight toward the MacKinnon, cursing the circle of mounts that enclosed her. They had another thing coming if they thought were going to keep her from speaking her mind. Determined to have words with her tormentor, she forced her way through the band of Scotsmen, ignoring the scores of curses and warnings that flew at her back.
No one stopped her, and in less than a moment, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had managed to plague most every second of every waking thought.
Iain MacKinnon.
Even his name made gooseflesh erupt.
“I demand you stop this instant.”
He lifted a brow, and his sensuous lips curved with humor at her expense. “Do you now?” he asked. “And what is it precisely you wish me to stop, lass?” When Malcom, too, peered up at her, a little anxiously, the MacKinnon placed a hand to his son’s shoulder, reassuring him. Page tried not to note the simple fatherly gesture, and chose instead to focus on her anger.
She chafed over his arrogant tone of voice. “I mean stop,” she said, indicating the cavalcade with an impatient wave of her hand. “Stop riding!”
She eyed his son, imagining the boy must think her a madwoman. And she could scarce blame him; certainly she felt like one. In truth, she had felt discomposed from the instant the MacKinnon had first laid eyes upon her. Her gaze returned to the MacKinnon’s glittering amber eyes, and she suddenly couldn’t think at all. Her heart leapt at what she saw in the depths of his gaze.
Admiration.
There was no mistaking it.
His gaze mesmerized her, invited her to bask in their warmth.
An unwanted shiver coursed down Page’s spine.
She tried to ignore it, and failed miserably. The assault upon her senses was far too keen. Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and she stared, unable to look away.
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