Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

“Why is it ye would be wantin’ me to stop, lass?” he asked, his voice husky and low.

  Page’s heart did a little somersault as she once again met his gaze.

  He blinked, waiting for her response, and Page swallowed. “I need to rest,” she said, slightly dazed, and more than a little breathless. The thick sound of her voice embarrassed her.

  He seemed to realize the effect his gaze was having upon her, for his lips curved a fraction more, and she stammered, “W-we’ve b-been...”

  He smiled, a devastating smile, and the breath left her completely. Her stomach floated, and her heart took wing, flying into her throat.

  “R-riding all the morn,” she finished lamely, swallowing.

  He said nothing to that, merely deepened his smile, and Page felt suddenly like a wretched waif whose tongue had been cut out for merely stealing a taste of forbidden fruit. She felt suddenly so meritless beneath his scrutiny. He was beautiful... everything about him. Everything. From the curve of his lips, to the contours of his face, to the long lean length of his body, and the muscled strength in his mostly bare limbs.

  And Page... she was so... plain.

  He couldn’t possibly desire her for anything but revenge.

  Truly, he must be toying with her, playing some cruel, cruel game, for a man such as he could never want a woman such as she.

  Not even for the space of a heartbeat.

  And his kindness only served to confuse her. It made her heart wrench painfully.

  The lilting brogue and the soft tone of his voice tormented her, for it made her wish for things that could never be... a lover’s embrace... a whisper at her ear... his warm breath on her lips. All those things she’d heard whispered about in the dark corners of her father’s home.

  “What is it, lass?” he asked softly.

  Page turned abruptly away, unsettled by the wicked turn of her thoughts. She felt the flush creep into her face. “We’ve ridden all day without the least chance to rest,” she complained for the first time. “Nor to—” She gazed at him quickly, and then her glance skittered away. She was both annoyed and disconcerted that she should have to broach such a tender subject—hurt and disappointed, although she had no right to be, that he would play such games with her tattered soul. “You know...”

  But how could he know anything? she asked herself.

  He couldn’t know that the shreds of her heart were welded so delicately together that a single whisper from his beautiful lips could melt her piteous heart like the first tender snowflakes upon a sun-blistered ground. Nay, as far as the MacKinnon was concerned, she was her father’s beloved daughter. And Page... she was simply his vengeance against the man who’d stolen his precious son.

  He bellowed a command to his men in his Scots tongue. At the fierce sound, Page startled where she sat. Anger was her first thought—he must be angry with her now—and she shivered violently.

  His men changed course, away from the valley they’d been following, up the rise of a gently rolling hill. The MacKinnon spoke to his son briefly, the boy nodded, and he then shouted for his cousin Lagan to come attend him. He handed his son to Lagan, sparing a quick glance toward Page, and then snapped an unintelligible command to his cousin. He reached out suddenly, seizing Page’s reins, and then veered away onto a path that led into a sparse woodland, away from the party.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To gi’ ye the privacy ye need,” he snapped.

  Iain was furious with himself, not so much for neglecting the lass’s needs, but for what he’d spied in the depths of Page’s eyes.

  His men never stood on ceremony where bodily demands were concerned, they simply did what they must. He’d forgotten to consider hers, and he was irritated by that fact, but what angered him most was the wounded look she’d given him.

  Curse her father for his uncaring heart.

  Although her bearing was proud and unbroken still, her eyes revealed everything. He’d recognized her desire at once, in the depths of her dewy-eyed gaze, and his body had reacted tenfold. As if he were a beardless youth, the sweat from his palms had begun to salt the leather reins he held. He’d sat there, listening to her ramblings, and had been hard put to keep his thoughts on any single word she spoke. Even the sound of her voice affected him. Lulled him. Husky and breathless.

  And then just as quickly as her yearning revealed itself, it vanished, replaced with that same wounded look he now recognized from the first time he’d set eyes upon her—the look of a woman scorned.

  Didn’t she realize what her presence did to a man? Had he not made it clear enough last eve when he said he wanted her? He had half a notion to find the most secluded spot here in these woods, yank her down from that mount, and show her just how he was affected by her with a firm, impassioned kiss.

  How could she not realize?

  “What of the rest of the men?” she asked anxiously.

  Iain’s jaw remained taut, although he tried to be rid of his anger. For her sake. “They’re going to find a place to settle for the night.”

  “Without us?” She sounded distressed, and a little breathless, and Iain turned to appraise her. She was staring yet again, those beautiful soulful eyes wide and fraught with anxiety. She nibbled at her lip nervously, and he lapped at his own gone dry.

  Afeared to be alone with him, was she?

  Somehow, the thought both tormented and pleased him immensely.

  “We’ll catch them,” he assured, turning away. “As soon as we’re done.”

  “Do you know where they are going?”

  “Just beyond the rise. ’Tis a secluded enough place, we’ll not be troubled there.”

  “I see,” she said, though she didn’t sound very reassured.

  “There lies a loch, as well,” Iain added. “I thought perchance ye would wish to refresh yourself.” He peered over at her, watching her expression as she rode, gauging her mood, and then he added, “Suisan.” He hadn’t meant to test the name so soon, hadn’t even thought about what to call her, but the name came to his lips, and he thought it suited her perfectly. Delicate and beautiful, like the lily she was, but sturdy, too, returning each spring after weathering the bitterest of snows.

  Her gaze flew to his, and she blinked, then turned away. “I am no beast to be named at your pleasure,” she hissed.

  Iain didn’t know what to say. That much was true. Leading the way in silence, he drew her into the thickest part of the forest, and then reined in and dismounted.

  “No, you’re no’,” he acknowledged finally.

  Page remained stiff in the saddle and Iain went to her side, intending to help her dismount, but he made the mistake of peering up at her in that moment. There were tears in her eyes. He could see them although she wouldn’t meet his gaze, and his heart wrenched painfully. Had he acted wrongly? But of course he had, he realized, for when she turned to look down at him again, there was anger in her eyes—an anger so filled with pain that Iain’s heart bled at the sight of it.

  Ach, why should he care what she felt? He didn’t know this woman. He didn’t owe her any accursed thing. Hadn’t even wanted to bring her...

  And yet he had…

  It occurred to him suddenly that if he truly hadn’t wished to bring the girl along, he simply wouldn’t have. He did care what she felt. She’d managed to reach some part of his soul that had lain untouched for too many years. And yet somehow, she’d pierced the shadowy realm with her first heart-stirring glance.

  Mounted before him, towering above him as she was, her long plait unraveling down her back, her dark eyes flashing and luminous, and her stance proud, she seemed almost a wild thing. Wild and unapproachable, like the deer of the forests, whose wide brown eyes were both forbidding and heedful at once.

  For an instant he was wholly mesmerized by those fathomless dark pools, some part of him yearning to leap into their misty depths, to discover the hidden mysteries... and pleasures.

  He knew she thought he pitied her, that much wa
s apparent. He could see it in her eyes, but, by the stone... it was so far from the truth. If anything, he rather admired her. Not many men could have taken the abuse he sensed she’d received at her father’s hands, and still come through it unscathed. Wounded she might be, but she was far from defeated.

  He envied her, as well, he realized. Envied her for the freedom she was unafraid to embrace.

  He thought about the moment he’d first spied her, soaked from a midnight swim that no true lady would have dared fancy. Her eyes had flashed with defiance, although she’d been cast down at his feet.

  He’d wanted, in that moment, not to conquer, but to join her.

  Too many years he’d lived in this dark room that was his life—always doing what was right, what was just, never pursuing the candlelight that beckoned just beyond his chamber threshold.

  He’d been his father’s only son, born into the world a man. Although Iain was certain his father had loved him, he’d been a teacher more than a father, always fearful that his only heir would somehow depart this life before him and that his sovereign bloodline would end. He had both protected Iain interminably and trained him fiercely so that he might fend for himself and his clan when at last the old laird closed his eyes. And he’d closed them all too soon, his final time during Iain’s seventeenth winter. But his Da would have been proud of him, he thought, for he’d given everything to his clan. Every moment of every waking hour of his life. He’d spared them naught.

  And still some part of him was not his own to give, for it eluded even him…

  He’d never known his mother, never ceased to mourn that fact. Although sometimes... sometimes... he thought he spied her kindly face shrouded amidst deeper memories. Nothing more than fancy, he realized, for she’d never once held him within her arms. He had never had the chance to look into her soothing eyes—didn’t even know what color they were, but he had the vaguest impression of blue—to suckle as a babe at her breast, or to spy her watching him as he played with other children.

  Mairi, too, had been his duty to his clan.

  He’d wanted so much from his wife, so much—mayhap too much. He was willing to take that much responsibility for her death. In fact, he’d taken it all—as ever was his duty. Her rejection of him, and the infernal ends to which she had gone to escape him, had finally extinguished the lone taper he had tended so zealously all of his life. In the space of a heartbeat, in the wake of her flight from his high tower window, the candle of hope had flickered and died.

  The woman seated so proudly before him was like that light shining just beyond his reach, beckoning him out from the darkness that he knew so well.

  And he wanted to pursue it with every fiber of his being.

  Those brief moments of reflection were Iain’s undoing, for she seemed to recover herself quickly from their shared stupor, and reacted with all the vengeance her eyes foreboded.

  Too late, he seized the reins from her hands. She spurred Ranald’s mount away. The horse reared, surging forward. Iain lost hold of the reins with all but one finger, and with that tentative hold, he tried to force her to stop.

  Ranald’s mount, addled now, seemed to hesitate, and Iain at once tried to regain his hold upon the reins, but she spurred the horse yet again, all the more furiously this time, and he was flung forward. The leather sliced the flesh of his hand, searing it with the force of its pull. His arm twisted within the rein, and he was dragged along with her.

  Iain howled in pain, trying to find a foothold, but the horse tore away too swiftly. Realizing in that moment that she was unknowingly going to kill him, that she wasn’t going to stop, that he would need to pursue her with his own mount, he tried to free himself at once. He succeeded, but not before managing to drag himself under the horse’s hooves. His answering curse was a cry of pain.

  His arm untangled and he was flung to the ground. His head impacted with a crack that reverberated clear into his unconscious mind.

  * * *

  It took Page an instant too long to free herself from the angry fog that enveloped her. Realizing suddenly what she’d done, she whirled the mount about, and sat, horseflesh rippling beneath her as she stared at the body lying so still upon the ground.

  Mercy, what had she done?

  Some part of her wanted to go to him.

  But her heart twisted painfully.

  She turned to stare in horror and panic at the path that led to freedom, and for an instant was anguished and torn.

  There would never be a greater opportunity for escape.

  Some part of her wanted to go—back to her father—some part of her truly did, but the greater part of her could not leave this man lying there as he was.

  So very still.

  He was her father’s enemy, she reminded herself.

  A liar and a faithless cheat.

  But he had treated her with nothing less than kindness—this man whose worst crime against her had been to give her a name her father had never stirred himself to bestow.

  Suisan.

  He’d called her Suisan.

  Her heart wrenched and she wondered what it meant.

  The sound of the name upon his lips, like a lover’s whisper, had made her heart leap a little, had filled her eyes with tears she’d never dared to shed.

  Aye, and Page dared in that moment to love him, this fierce stranger, whom she dared not even like…

  Her heart hammered as she stared at the body lying so frighteningly still before her.

  The realization that he pitied her had turned her heart to stone, and her thoughts to fury.

  Page came aware of tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Sobs rang in her ears—her own?

  But why should she weep for this man?

  How could she not go? She’d waited all her life for her father to want her, and now that he did, she must leave. She must!

  This man had betrayed him, had broken Hugh FitzSimon’s faith. Why should she care that he lay there?

  Possibly dying.

  Possibly dead.

  Page’s stomach twisted.

  He didn’t so much as move as she watched. He lay upon the forest floor, his body crushing the bracken beneath. She gauged the light through sparse-limbed trees; it was fast growing dark.

  What if they couldn’t find him before the sun made its final descent? She recalled what Broc had said about Ranald—in what condition his body had been discovered—and fear squeezed her heart.

  She couldn’t bear for that fate to be Iain MacKinnon’s, no matter that she wanted desperately to loathe him still.

  She couldn’t go; she may never see her father again, but she couldn’t go.

  Spurring her mount back, she reined in beside Iain, dismounting quickly, kneeling by his side.

  He lay so still, so very still that Page’s heart thumped and fear assaulted her.

  Desperate to hear his breath, some evidence that he lived, she placed her cheek against his lips, warm with the sweet elixir of life. Her eyes closed with relief once she felt his breath, so light and airy against her face.

  Thank God.

  She couldn’t have borne it.

  Thank you God, thank you God, thank you God!

  For the longest instant Page couldn’t move, so benumbed was she with giddy relief. Suddenly, a hand caught her at her nape, and his eyes flew open wide. She felt his lashes flutter against her cheek but couldn’t move for the clasp he had upon her neck. She filled her lungs with a gulping breath as his grip held her more firmly against him. His nostrils flared, as though scenting her, and then he groaned and clenched his jaw.

  Her heart began to hammer fiercely. The sound of it echoed like drums in her ears. She tried to draw away, alarmed by the currents that jolted through her at the intimate position of their bodies.

  “Nay,” he rasped. The single word was a plea, a tormented whisper that bore more desperation than did the depths of her soul. That more than the force of his grip held her quiescent against him.

 
; For an instant, neither of them spoke; he simply held her, his lips pressed against her cheek, with a despair that Page had once thought only she could know.

  She stirred, and his grip tightened.

  “Don’t go,” he pleaded, and she could feel his heartbeat quicken against the palm she had braced upon his chest.

  “I...” Page swallowed. Unreasonable as it seemed, she took fierce pleasure in the simple request. It choked the breath from her lungs. “I... I feared to have killed you,” she confessed softly, and closed her eyes, allowing him to move his lips against her face.

  Soft, warm, and sweet…his lips were…making her daft. She trembled with pleasure.

  His breath came labored, as did her own, and his whisper was hot and sweet against her face, and still he did not release her. Page hesitated, before her body could betray her, but somehow his lips found their way to her ear, and he murmured, “Stay, lass… stay with me…”

  Page thought she would die from the sensations that swept through her at his plea, at the warmth of his breath against her lobe…the way that he seemed to be savoring her face…like a blind lover seeking knowledge of the one he loved…only Iain’s fingers were his lips…and he was making her insane.

  “Are... are you hurt?” she found the wits to ask. Her fingers slid into his hair, searching, secretly reveling in the thick healthy texture of his hair.

  “Nay.”

  She breathed a wild sigh of relief at his answer, and then he whispered at her ear. “Why did you come back?”

  “I... I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, and she didn’t.

  “I’m verra glad you did.”

  “I shouldn’t have,” she acknowledged softly.

  “But you did.”

  “Aye.” Page swallowed again, for his lips began to move tentatively against her cheek once more. Heaven help her, she didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. She closed her eyes to savor the feel of them caressing her face. She never knew a heart could feel so taxed and yet continue to beat. That her flesh could feel so sensitive to the touch.

  It was her body that betrayed her, not her heart, she reminded herself, for her heart was entombed in stone—stone walls she had erected herself with blood and mortar, and painful precision. Only her father had the power to bring them down, and instead he had helped to build them, handing her the bricks, one by one, that she might lay them firmly upon the foundation that was her life.