Had she instead only longed that her father would reach out and snatch her far-wandering soul, and hold her fast against his heart?
Her gaze fastened upon a dark fluttering ash... Were she free to leave... free to fly... where would she alight?
The soft sound of children’s voices drew her out of her reverie, and she peered down to spy Malcom and his friends working at catching ashes in their palms.
She watched them for an eternity, feeling never more the stranger in their midst.
As she watched, they gathered what remained of Ranald’s ashes into their tiny hands, along with charred wood flakes. They ran, scurrying to catch all that they could, gathering black rain into their tiny fists. They blackened their faces with the soot, blackened their eager little fingers.
And then as Page watched, they brought the fruits of their labors to Ranald’s mother... handed her the smothered ashes. One by one, they turned over their hands and sprinkled black dust into her cupped hands.
A smile touched her lips as Malcom turned over his own and nothing came forth. He scrunched his little nose as he peered down at his soot-blackened hand, and then he shrugged and wiped his pudgy fingers across her upturned hand. She smiled gently, and after speaking low to the lot of them, the woman stood and lifted up her palms to the sky and let the ashes fly once more. What soot remained, she smeared across her breast—the part of him she would keep—and once again she began to weep.
Page’s eyes stung with tears, and the thought struck her that true love was as ungrudging as a mother’s simple but unselfish gesture of releasing her beloved son’s ashes into the wind.
* * *
It was a dark room and an empty bed Page awoke to the next morning.
“Accursed Scot,” Page whispered with a smile. If this was going to become a pattern, she’d be giving Iain a talking to before the week was done. While it was gratifying to have won his trust, to be able to wander freely but not invisibly, it would be even more gratifying to have a warm arm around her and someone to share little nothings with upon waking.
Still, it might be nice to have a moment to herself, a moment to let reality truly sink in. She’d noticed a chapel on the grounds last night during the festivities. After seeing how readily they’d cast poor Ranald’s corpse into the fire, she had no doubts that she’d be left alone were she to seek out sanctuary. The MacKinnon’s were a friendly lot, so it seemed, but a life cast aside by her father had made her wary of jumping so readily and fully into their midst. This was something she still needed to do.
Rising from the bed, she dressed and set out to find the chapel.
She found it easily. Set in a small copse, it seemed abandoned, but well kept—a strange contradiction. The pathway was clear and no vines latched themselves upon the stone. Even the floor seemed swept as the light cascaded in through the door she nudged open.
As a near orphan, propriety and piety had never been given the emphasis they would have had she been what her father deemed a true heir. She’d never learned to pray. Therefore, she was slightly at a loss for what to do first. Ambling over to the alter, she gaped at the cross fixed there. The crucifixes at Aldergh were all crafted with deft hands with as much gold was needed to appear the part of a devoted congregation. Here, however, the simplicity of what hung before her was, in its own way, bold and beautiful beyond any cross she’d ever seen before, much like the MacKinnon himself. She reached out as though to touch it, but thought better of it and lowered her self to her knees to pray.
But no sooner had she knelt when the room flooded with light once more and Page heard a strangled gasp as Glenna stumbled into the room. Having heard the older woman ramble in detail about the fae the night before, she was the very last person Page expected to see here, but she supposed there could be room for both. Or mayhap Page was not the only one who needed to hide away from world for a little while.
“Bless me. I’m sorry, child. I didn’t realize anyone was here,” she said a little louder than the situation required. Perhaps she had forced it, for Page could see the tracks of tears upon her cheeks and hear how fraught her generally assertive and joyous voice was. “I can come back later.”
“No, no. Stay. I am, after all, your guest.”
“Oh, are ye now?” Glenna said, with a smile. “I was under the impression you’d be staying quite some longer.”
Page hid a smile before returning to her prayers, but not before she realized how tightly Glenna wrung her hands as she knelt beside her.
A few moments later, Page, unable to collect her thoughts after the unsuspected interruption, stood to leave. But to her surprise, Glenna stood alongside her and together they bowed and made for the door.
“Glenna, I wonder if you might help me with something?”
“What would that be, child?” She gave Page a warm smile, one Page wasn’t completely sure how to return having only recently met the woman.
“Well,” she began, and then a shriek caught in her throat as she opened the door to find Lagan directly in her path.
“I was looking for my mother.”
“I’m here Lagan, though whatever it is you needst say must wait. Page needs my help,” she said tersely as she overtook Page, almost shielding her, and took her by the hand, leading her back along the path.
Startled by Glenna’s reaction and still shaken at finding Lagan so close, she hesitated for just a moment, giving Lagan a curt nod, and then hurried away.
Chapter 28
The entire kitchen reeked of lye soap.
Steam from boiling kettles curled upward to mix with acid fumes, the combination of heat and lye strong enough to burn the lungs from any breathing creature who should merely think to pass by the small stonework building. And yet they all remained cheerfully within, working diligently at Page’s command. She didn’t fool herself for an instant; these people were clearly desperate to rid themselves of their fleas and seemed eternally grateful and even eager to comply in any manner conceivable.
Glenna had brought along with her a tunic for Page to wear—one she’d claimed had never belonged to Iain’s wife at all. But Page found herself smiling as Glenna had reassured her, blushing, that it was one of her own—from younger, thinner days.
It was a grand gesture, Page thought. She had never concerned herself overmuch with her manner of dress, and was only mildly embarrassed that Glenna should think she needed a new gown. She was entirely dismayed, however, to find that even the tunic had fleas. Of course, she had, at once, taken it upon herself to rid the MacKinnon clan of their fleas. Recalling how they’d managed Aldergh's infestation a few years past, she set about the tasks with zeal. With Glenna’s help, she managed to gather the infested men and women together and she was in the process of boiling garments within massive iron kettles.
The kitchen was pervaded with perspiring bodies; some merely observing the strange ritual, others participating. And when she dared to bathe Broc’s dog, the flea-breeding culprit, stunned murmurs accosted her ears. Some whispered in Gaelic. Others in plain English.
“Ach, she’s daft!”
“I think she’s gain’ to wash the dog!”
“Well, I’ll be, she is gain’ to wash the dog!”
Smiling to herself, Page didn’t hesitate at her task, nor did she linger to explain. She thought it rather an obvious solution, and marveled that no one had ever thought of it before now. Smiling, she cast the animal into a lye-soaped tub, and scrubbed his matted fur until she thought he might go bald from the scouring. The beast never protested once, and for all that, it merely arched its back like a cat, luxuriating in the bath.
“Must be a Sassenach curse to ward away fleas,” someone whispered.
For Merry Bells it was a blessing. Likely the dog was so bitten and abused by the horrid little creatures that even Page’s scrubbing was a favor.
Once she was done with Merry Bells, she granted Malcom and one of his friends the dubious honor of hunting whatever fleas remained. She showed them how to
search, found a few for them, and then set them to work. She left the two snickering, pretending to hunt down “dirty MacLeans hiding in MacKinnon woodlands.”
That done, she emptied the tub, and then began to refill it with clean water to bathe the Behemoth and his friends. Without a doubt, she knew they wouldn’t like it, but somehow she would need to convince them that it was for their own good.
She didn’t even notice the crowd gathered before the wash kettle until it was too late and they were all divested of their clothing. Starting when she turned to spy their bare bottoms and nude bodies congregated about the steaming cauldron, she gasped aloud and slapped a hand over her eyes to hide the view. These Scotsmen had no shame at all, she decided. Never in her life had she known men so eager to undress—or mayhap she had, but certainly none without ulterior motive. Peeking between fingers, she spied the last of them dropping tunic and breacan into the wash kettle, and her face heated from more than just the heat of the steam-filled kitchen.
Never mind that she’d thought herself perfectly capable of carrying out this task—she was mortified.
Certainly she’d seen men unclothed before. Her father and half brothers had had little regard for small courtesies where she had been concerned—and she had fully intended to wash Broc, after all—but this was ludicrous. She peered about to find that the other women present were perfectly at ease. While they were—she thanked God—somewhat more modest, they seemed to take little heed of the rampant nudity accosting their senses.
Groaning in dismay, Page snapped her fingers together and contemplated her options. She could run screaming from the room, and look like a fool. Or she could uncover her eyes and finish the task she’d begun. She rubbed at her temples, pretending a headache and decided to finish the job.
Iain wasn’t sure whether to kiss the woman senseless, or paddle her delightful rear.
He’d missed her—missed her like he’d never thought it possible to miss the sight of a bonny face in the few hours since he’d last seen her, lying so cozy within his bed.
But now he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his hands braced upon either side of the frame, and simply stared inside, mouth agape.
At his end of the room stood all his witless men, chattering idly about a steaming cauldron like a huddle of old women—all of them naked as the day they were spewed from their mammies’ wombs! He didn’t believe in false modesties, and his men had never been overly discreet, but this was ridiculous. Leave her alone with his men for five minutes, and he returned to find them undressed every time. If she didn’t look so sweetly abashed by the lot of them, he might have thought it deliberate on her part, for he couldn’t recall a time when his men had been so eager to strut about unclothed.
It took him a few befuddled minutes to even make out the purpose of this boiler room. His first clue had been a very wet Merry Bells—with his son and young Keith diligently searching her shaggy coat. His next was the stench of lye, and the boiling cauldron of bleeding wool. And lastly, his son’s excited shout of “A flea! A flea! I got one!” as he held out his pinched fingers for Keith’s eager inspection.
“I see no flea!” Keith argued.
Iain didn’t know whether to be proud that she was concerned for the welfare of his kinfolk, or furious that she would so unwisely place herself in a room full of naked, lusty men. It was all he could do not to dunk them all into that boiling cauldron along with their clothes.
His gaze remained upon Page as he waited to see what she would do.
Until he happened to spy Broc’s bare bottom headed in her direction, and in that instant, any warm thoughts over her charitable gesture fled entirely. With a snarl of displeasure, he propelled himself from the doorframe and marched into the room. Spying him all at once, Broc halted in his step, and the room fell to a hush.
Page, however, was unaware of his presence, for her eyes were still dutifully covered, until he snatched her by the arm. She shrieked in startle when he jerked her after him, dragging her out of the room.
“Wait,” she protested. “I’m not yet done!”
“Oh, yes ye are,” Iain asserted.
“But I have to give Broc a bath.”
“Oh, no ye don’t,” he argued.
“But the fleas,” Page protested, stumbling after him.
“What about them?” Iain argued, no hesitation in his stride. “Ach, the lad has been bathin’ himself for four and twenty years—I think he’ll do well enough withoot ye.”
He led her out of the kitchen, leaving those within to stare, grinning like cats, after them.
Lagan’s smile faded the instant they walked out the door. “Besotted fools!” he whispered to Glenna.
Glenna’s smile faded, as well, as she turned to contemplate the boy she’d raised from birth. “Lagan,” she reasoned, her voice aggrieved. “Can ye no’ be happy for him, just once? Can ye no’ see that he’s suffered enough already?”
Lagan’s eyes glittered with resentment. “What of me?” he asked. “Have I no’ suffered enough, as well?”
“Lagan,” she objected. “He is your—”
“We both know what he is to me, Mother,” he said.
“Ach, Lagan, but have I not loved ye well?” He stared, unmoved by her question, and she lowered her gaze. “Then at least do remember that he is your laird, and do not speak of him so.”
“My brother, my laird,” he whispered into her ear, mocking her. “Aye, but it galls. What have I ever had of him?” he asked her, his upper lip curling into a snarl.
“Everything he could give,” she answered.
“The only thing I have ever wanted was the right to grieve for my mother.”
“Ye canna, Lagan. He does not know.”
“And so, o’ course, as ever, ’tis Iain we should be concerned o’er, right?”
“It was the old laird’s wish,” Glenna reminded.
“And what o’ my Da’s wishes? What aboot them? The brute killed him because my mother dared to love him.”
“It was an accident, Lagan.”
“How can you continue to defend him?” Lagan returned angrily.
Glenna shook her head. “He was as much aggrieved by Dougal MacLean’s death as any mon. The old laird’s anger drove him to it. He loved your mother more than anything. How can you not forgive?”
“Ach, but ’tis your own sister’s bairn, your flesh and blood, he denied. Me.”
Glenna hung her head. “I gave you everything, Lagan. You wanted for naught.”
“I wanted for plenty,” he hissed. “Ye were just too blind to see.”
She shook her head, lamenting. “I should ne’er have told ye.”
“Aye, but ye did,” he returned, eyes narrowing wrathfully. “And as God is my witness, it shall be made right.”
Glenna’s gaze flew to his, searching. “What will you do, Lagan? Dinna do anythin’ foolish,” she admonished, worry etched in her eyes.
“I intend to see justice is done,” he hissed, and walked away.
Chapter 29
It seemed no matter where Page went, trouble pursued her.
Vowing to keep herself free from provocation, she decided to remain within Iain’s chamber all the next day.
The notion came to her in the middle of the night to refurbish his tower room, and she awoke the next morn with a mission, hoping to complete the task before his return. She waited until he left her, and then enlisted Glenna’s help once again—Broc’s, as well. She began by hauling up buckets with which to clean. That done, she scoured the floors, scrubbing until there was nary a speck of dust left to be found. And when she finished the floors, she moved to the walls, scrubbing until the stone was free of soot and grime.
Glenna set herself to laundering the bedclothes.
There was little enough Page could do to add cheer to the bedchamber, for Iain seemed to have very few indulgences. Search though she did, there was nothing she could find to place upon the floors or walls; no tapestries to add color, no rugs to ward
away the chill that seemed to remain forever present—despite that the sun shone brightly outside.
There was, however, one thing she determined would aid immensely, and she started at once for the boarded window, resolving to let in the sunlight. The sun, she was certain, would do wonders to transform the room’s gaol-like quality into something somewhat more gay.
The wooden slats barring the window were heavy and crude, clearly not meant to be ornate. Placed at odd angles to each other, they gave the impression they were hurriedly placed, and perhaps not meant to be permanent. Well, it was long past time they should come down, she resolved, as she wrestled with the bottommost slat. She struggled with the board only an instant before determining that she would need help.
“Broc!” she called out. There was no answer. “Broc?” She turned to find he’d vanished from the room. Bewildered by his sudden disappearance, she turned and found Glenna frozen at the far side of the room, staring, a look akin to horror registered upon her face, a bundle of clean bedding visibly clenched within her arms.
“Where did he go?” Page asked. “I need his help to unbar the window.”
“Oh, hinnie!” Glenna whispered frantically. “I dinna think ye should do that!” She turned to peer out from the open doorway, as though suddenly afeared someone would spy them.
Page blinked. “Why? I do not understand,” she said, confused by the terrified expression upon the older woman’s face. “Is there a reason this window should remain barred?”
“Aye... well—aye!” Glenna said, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and looking ill at ease.
Page raised a brow. “Why?”
“Ach, lass, ’tis a long ways down,” Glenna disclosed.
The explanation sounded lame to Page, and she screwed her face as she contemplated the strange reasoning.
“For Malcom’s sake,” Glenna added, tossing the bedsheets on the bed. “It was boarded to keep him safe.”
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