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  Thank God! she prayed.

  Fortunately, even after reaching the opposite bank, there was still no evidence of her pursuers, only shouts and curses she couldn’t quite decipher, coming from the opposite shore. But she daren’t feel triumphant, for if they were even vaguely familiar with the lay of the land, they would realize that, only a few furlongs ahead, the stream ended and they would once again meet en route to the castle. Page didn’t intend to take that risk. Lifting herself from the stream, sopping to her bones, she made instead for the sanctuary of the woods. They would expect her to run for the castle—as instinct was crying out that she do. However, logic told her she would fare better doing the unexpected.

  If she could make it into the safety of the woods—and perchance climb a tree—she could wait for them to tire of searching and go home. They were likely no more than brigands, and she their luckless prey. Page was certain that, given the choice of searching all night long for some poor, hapless female, or seeking out more profitable victims, they would tire sooner rather than later and simply leave her be.

  Encouraged by her plan, she ran, panting. Her wet shift clung to her legs. Peering back behind her, she tried not to trip as she fled, making doubly certain no one was following. Euphoria washed over her when there was no sign of her attackers.

  She was going to make it, after all.

  Regrettably, that was her last coherent thought, before Page turned and collided with a tree.

  At least she thought it was a tree.

  The impact knocked her flat upon her back and left her reeling. She lay there, stupefied, staring up at a Goliath of a man.

  Mercy, but he was tall!

  Within the instant, she was surrounded by more men. Their faces a blur in her benumbed state, they seemed to be leering down at her, disembodied teeth shining against the moonlight.

  “Ach, mon, ye’ve gone and made her daft,” she understood one to say.

  “Eh, she’ll come aboot,” said another.

  Filthy Scots.

  She could tell by their brogue, but that, too, was Page’s final thought before she swooned.

  Chapter 2

  The scent of grain surrounded her... golden fields abloom...

  Page was running through them... running... running...

  For a befuddled moment, she thought she’d died and gone to Heaven, for that was where she deserved to go after living her life in hell.

  Had they already killed her?

  But nay... she didn’t think so.

  A groan sounded in her ears and she thought it might be her own. Her body felt... squashed... broken, detached somehow. But at least she was able to feel.

  Run, she commanded herself—run!

  Her body jerked into full cognizance only to find she was being jostled about between men inside a sack of meal—a meal sack! Tiny grains stuck to her face and she wondered hysterically if they were going to kill her now, stuffed as she was, in a sack, like some pesky cat to be drowned in the river.

  At least the sack wasn’t filled with stones.

  Though it seemed they were moving away from the bank... into the woods… She sensed the darkness close about them and she struggled in vain, screaming until her throat burned. Her abductors seemed impervious to her struggles.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up from the depths of her.

  Her father’s prophecy was about to come true. He’d always told her she’d be her own ruin someday. Well, that someday had come.

  Mercy, she should never have come alone to swim. She should have brought Cora with her—and now she was going to die for her recklessness.

  All at once she found her voice. “Release me!” she screamed, tearing at the sack with renewed determination. “Release me at once!” Heart pounding, she twisted and fought like a savage, kicking and bucking against the men’s firm hold upon the sack. “Release me this instant, rotten heathens—let me go!”

  Like a chorus, they broke into laughter.

  Well, laugh then! She wasn’t about to make this painless for them! Twisting and turning, she vowed that when they finally released her, she was going to pluck out their eyes.

  If only she had her dagger.

  Alas, it lay somewhere along the bank, along with her—sweet mercy!

  Her struggles ceased all at once with the realization that she was half naked to boot. Hysteria welled within her. She couldn’t have made it easier for them to ravage and murder her had she sent invitations.

  And no one would even miss her.

  Page’s stomach wrenched.

  Aye, she’d be fortunate enough if her father eventually noticed she was gone after a sennight. He was far more attentive to his Scots guest than he’d ever considered being to her. Well, she thought despairingly, mayhap he would notice sooner, if only because she seemed to have the most unfortunate gift for getting herself into his ill graces—just the same way she had a genius for getting herself into trouble. She was ill fated, to be sure. But he was bound to miss the mayhem.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Nay, though perhaps not.

  Fueled with a fresh wave of desperation, Page began her struggles anew, only to be jabbed with a burly knee for her efforts.

  Curse and rot their heathen hides!

  She didn’t care if they bruised her body until every inch was blue, Page didn’t intend to die quietly.

  But, then, suddenly, the sound of new voices stopped her struggles abruptly. Without warning, the sack was overturned and Page was tossed unceremoniously upon the ground.

  She cried out in surprise.

  Reeling, she surged to her feet, only to sway dizzily backward and fall backward upon her rump, staring, dumbfounded, at the barest pair of limbs she’d ever seen in all her life.

  Strong male limbs.

  What rotten luck.

  Another giant.

  Her gaze flew upward, locking with eyes that gleamed in amusement at her expense, eyes that were filled with arrogance and cool disdain.

  A lump rose in her throat, for she had seen that look too oft to mistake it. Like everyone did, he peered down his nose at her and found her wanting. Well! Page didn’t much care what a dirty Scotsman thought of her. Particularly since he was likely to be planning ahead to her demise now that he’d likely changed his mind about doing any ravaging.

  She didn’t appear all that much like an earl’s daughter, Iain thought—save for the arrogance in her eyes. Nestled there, he spied all the haughtiness of her breeding.

  Impudent lass.

  Like some mad, cornered hare, she looked ready to pounce. And yet, for the briefest instant, whenever she’d first peered up at him, a flash of pain seemed to shadow those soulful dark eyes. A trick of the moonlight, no doubt, for as quickly as it appeared, the look vanished, replaced by that fierce glare of open defiance she now wore—that and little else, he couldn’t help but note.

  A shudder went through him, for he hadn’t missed the bold appraisal of his legs. Had she been the least bit nearer and chanced to peer up his tunic, she might have earned herself an eyeful.

  And yet despite the girl’s bedraggled appearance, she still managed to be stunning. Even cloaked by mist and shadows, her graceful curves were more than discernible, and his brows drew together as he considered her state of undress. Garbed in little more than her sodden shift, she seemed completely oblivious, in her anger, to the sight she must present to his men.

  Shaking his head over her foolishness, Iain wondered what sort of father allowed his only daughter to roam free at will? At night, no less?

  “She was precisely where they said she might be,” his cousin said.

  “So she was.” Iain said, and he was relieved and regretful all at once, for she made him long to put his cloak about her. Not to mention that he suddenly wished they’d met under different circumstances.

  He didn’t want her, he assured himself, shaking himself out of his distraction. No good would come of wanting such an impertinent young lass.

  Iain cro
ssed his arms, glowering down at her. “D’ ye make it a habit to bathe afore God and man alike?” He wasn’t sure why he’d asked the question; he knew she was, for the proof was here before his eyes. ’Twas how they’d managed to find her, after all, and yet he found himself oddly vexed over the notion.

  She lifted her chin, denying him an answer, but her dark eyes flared with undisguised anger. Iain tried not to smile at her mettle, for here she was, no more than a slip of a lass, challenging him before all his men, when his enemies dared not face him so directly.

  Fools, all of them, for he intended to discover the name of the Judas who’d dared to hand his son over to the English … and then he could kill the man with his bare hands.

  The grim reminder of his business with FitzSimon’s daughter turned his glimmer of good humor to rage. His jaw turned taut, and he asked the girl pointedly, “Have you no tongue, lass?”

  Like a phoenix rising up from its ashes, she rose to face him, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.

  “Have you no breeding?” she returned scathingly. “Scot!”

  She hurled the epithet at him with an imperious lift of her brow—as though it were a curse—and despite his anger, it was all Iain could do not to laugh outright at the unexpected insolence. “What concern is it of yours where I may bathe?”

  Iain was incredulous at her brazenness. Were he any other man... Ach, could she truly not know her folly? His gaze raked her from her wet, plaited head, down her long graceful limbs, wholly exposed by her wet gown, and on to her bare toes before returning to her face, carefully avoiding certain places in between, as he added, “You’ve an insolent tongue. Need I remind you—”

  “Well you will have no tongue at all when my father hears of this!” she returned boldly.

  Standing there, facing the hulk of a man, Page had to overcome the urge to take a wary step backward. She held her ground and drew herself up to her full height, and for an instant the Scot seemed bemused by her reply, then he arched a brow.

  Challenging her, perhaps?

  Page shuddered at the bold way he appraised her once more. No man ever dared look at her with such undisguised interest. It sent a jolt of alarm racing through her. And to her dismay, the tiniest thrill.

  But why?

  Mayhap she’d lost her wits when she’d collided with his behemoth of a friend?

  She cast a glance at the others and found them all staring with mouths agape. Page hoped their idiocy wasn’t contagious. They were all half-wits, every last one.

  “Catching glowworms perchance?” she asked them.

  A ridiculous sight, the lot of them; their brows drew together in unison and they cast surprised glances at one another, then snapped their mouths closed all at once.

  “Ach! ’Tis no wonder your Da lets you oot and aboot in the middle o’ the night,” the leader said. “He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your way in the dark.”

  Page’s heart twisted over the barb. His words stung like the rude crack of a palm across her face. She swallowed her pride and blinked away angry tears, determined not to betray her emotions to these heartless barbarians. He couldn’t possibly know how near to the mark his words had struck, or how much the truth hurt.

  Nor would he care, Page was quite certain.

  Her eyes burned. “My father will have you all beheaded for this insult to me,” she swore, but then she couldn’t help but note his handsome face and was momentarily confused.

  Another frisson raced down her spine; this one not quite borne of fear.

  Forsooth, he had a mouth more exquisite than any man had a right to own. She blinked. What the devil was wrong with her? How could she stand here contemplating lips so fine, when her life might be at stake? Her honor at the very least. Why didn’t she feel more afeared?

  By all accounts she should be. Everything about the man bespoke danger—everything from his barbarously unclad legs to his ferocious expression proclaimed him a savage Scot. In truth, if she had thought his brutish friend overly tall, this one was immense, towering above them all. And yet... something about him seemed… perfectly harmless … and vaguely familiar.

  Page narrowed her gaze, studying the shadowed contours of his face. She couldn’t know him.

  Could she?

  It was dark. Mayhap her mind was playing tricks on her. Then again, mayhap she was completely addle-pated from the injury to her head. Certainly she was mad to consider whether those lips were nearly so beauteous in the bold light of day.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, crossing her arms protectively over her breasts, feeling wholly exposed of a sudden, despite of the shift she wore and the veil of darkness surrounding them.

  He said naught, merely stood, staring, with that infuriating turn of his lips, and Page asserted, “Have you no tongue, Scot?”

  For the space of an instant he seemed taken aback by the question, even stunned, and then he surprised her with the rich timbre of his laughter.

  On the other hand, his men didn’t seem quite so amused. By all accounts, Page didn’t know why he should be either. Her father would have slapped her silly by now. Never in her life would she have been so brazen with him.

  “I dinna ken that she knows who she’s speaking to?” one of his men said.

  “Ach, lass, do ye know who it is you’re speaking to?

  “’Tis the MacKinnon,” growled another one of his lickspittles. “And ye’ll be watchin’ your tongue, lest you lose it!”

  “MacKinnon!” Page exclaimed.

  Startled, she took a step backward—less in response to his warning than to her shock. Her fear was at once forgotten in her indignation.

  This was not simply any savage Scot who stood before her, it was the savage Scot! It was his boy her father had granted safe harbor to as a favor to David of Scotia. For his safety, the boy was to become a ward of the English court, and Page had spent enough time with Malcom to know he’d been ill used. How dare this beast deal with his son so cruelly that his own king should be forced to intervene in order to save him. Poor wretched child! It was no wonder the cur looked so familiar! Father and son shared the exact same look—albeit one morphed by age.

  This face was hard and ruthless, despite the fleeting laughter that softened those exquisite lips. And ruthless was precisely what he was. Rumor had it that the man had murdered his poor young wife right after she’d borne him a son. “Blackguard!” she spat. “How dare you show your face.”

  The Scot arched a brow at her. “I came for my boy. Di’ ye think I would not?”

  Came for his boy, indeed!

  Page was so infuriated that she thought she might box his ears. She couldn’t have cared less about the consequences, she was so furious for Malcom’s sake.

  “Aye, well, you will be leaving without him!” she returned. “My father will never release him to the likes of you.” Whatever else he might be, her father was no imbecile. Mayhap he held no tenderness for the lad, but he would never dare risk Henry’s wrath by returning the wretched child to his vile father. “Have you not done enough to harm him already?”

  The MacKinnon stiffened at her accusation.

  Good! Let him feel guilt! If, in fact, he had a heart within that overgrown chest.

  “Aye, ’tis true. And ye’d best disabuse yourself of the notion that he’ll be returning to Scotia with you. Your son is to be protected by the King himself.” When his eyes betrayed alarm, she added, “As near as tomorrow he’ll be out of your hands and safe from you evermore.”

  The muscles in his jaw clenched, and for an instant, he seemed unable to speak.

  Good. Page hoped he felt regret. The poor boy had come to them beaten and mute, fearful even of meeting her gaze. No matter that she’d tried to draw him out, he kept his silence still. “What have you done to that poor child that he fears even to speak? You should be deeply ashamed of yourself, sir!”

  The MacKinnon suddenly found his tongue, and Page winced at the thunder in his tone.

 
“What d’ ye mean he willna speak?” He advanced upon her, his look darkening, his arms falling away to his sides, fists clenching.

  Seeing his murderous expression, Page stumbled backward “Y-you sh-should know,” she stammered. She took another prudent step backward. “You are the one who did it!”

  He continued advancing upon her, demanding, “What have you done to my son?”

  Page gasped and took a leap backward, her hand flying to her breast. “Me? You! What have you done to him?” What gall that he should cast the blame for his son’s affliction at her own feet! “He came to us just so!”

  “What in Biera’s name have you done to my son?” he persisted.

  The MacKinnon towered over her, glaring down fiercely, and Page thought she might never catch another breath. Her heart vaulted up, into her throat, strangling her.

  He was far too near!

  And she had no idea who Biera was.

  She winced, noting his distressed expression, and was suddenly no longer quite certain that the tales told of him were all true—leastways not those accusing him of abusing his son, for he seemed ready to rent her to shreds at the very notion that his boy might have been harmed.

  All the rest of the tales were quite easy to believe, however, for the man towering over her appeared more than capable of ripping the heart from a man—or a woman for that matter—with very little effort.

  Mercy, now she was afeared!

  Her heart thrashed madly against her ribs until she thought the strain might kill her.

  He spat a mouthful of indecipherable oaths, and then commanded his men, “Take her. Bind her to the stoutest tree you can find.”