The MacKinnon's Bride Page 3

  “Where does he think to take my son, wench?”

  “My father will tear out your bloody hearts and I will stand by and watch and laugh!”

  Unaffected, he advanced upon her, demanding, “Where?”

  Page loathed herself for cowing to him in that instant. “I-I don’t know!”

  His gaze scrutinized her through the night shadows. Recognizing the lie?

  “For truth?”

  Her voice sounded much too feeble to her own ears. “Aye.”

  “No matter,” he yielded. “Henry will never set eyes upon my boy. Silence her now, Lagan! I dinna wish to hear another bluidy word come out o’ her Sassenach mouth!”

  chapter 3

  Never in the whole of his life had Iain met a wench so troublesome—or so impertinent! He was mightily glad to know her father would deal with him come morning, because he couldn’t wait to be rid of her!

  The sooner the better.

  And yet, much as he wished to summon FitzSimon from his bed at this hour, to ransom Malcom this very instant, if the wench spoke true, and King Henry arrived on the morrow, then that was one more advantage he could press if the need arose.

  He’d never been one to waste opportunity. ’Twas said that, forsaking comfort, and in favor of celerity, the English king oft rode with a minimum retinue. Iain was counting on it. He had nigh forty men at his command—more than most traveled with at best—more than enough to give FitzSimon pause.

  Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.

  In the meantime, he was going to have to keep the mouthy wench bound and gagged, lest she drive his men to murder.

  Or him to worse.

  Of all the impudent, foolhardy... plucky females.

  She’d actually defended his son! Against him! The notion was ludicrous, and yet...

  She’d said Malcom would not speak.

  Iain tried to consider the news rationally—for Malcom’s sake. ’Twould serve no purpose at all to be losin’ his wits now when he needed them most.

  The fact that FitzSimon’s shrewish daughter thought him responsible for Malcom’s ills led him to believe that she, in truth, had had no part in his affliction.

  Else she protected her da...

  Though after the manner in which she spoke of him, Iain doubted she thought he needed protecting. She made her bastard da out to be some venerable champion! To hear her speak, she bore little fear of Iain’s reprisal against him. On the contrary, she expected her da to flay him alive. He shook his head with wonder over the callowness of her words.

  ’Twas like to be the simple fact that Malcom was frightened that kept his tongue stilled. His son liked to think of himself as a man, but he was yet a child, with a child’s heart.

  Christ, but when he discovered the traitor...

  His jaw clenched.

  It had to have been someone from within their clan, for the bastard had left no witnesses, nor evidence, to betray himself. He’d simply come, like the proverbial thief in the night, stolen Malcom, and then had fled, leaving no one the wiser.

  She had defended his son.

  Iain shook his head in wonder. He didn’t know whether to kiss her soundly for her unbiased defense of Malcom, or to strangle her where she stood.

  God’s teeth, she was a sharp-tongued wench with a mouth the likes o’ which he’d never known a woman to possess in his lifetime. He grinned then, despite himself, because he couldn’t believe she’d been so barefaced.

  Catching glowworms, indeed.

  He chuckled. The looks upon his men’s faces had been worth a king’s ransom.

  Aye, he was going to have to remain close to the wench, he resolved—but first things first. Right now he intended to retrieve her garments from the riverbank where she’d likely left them—he had to believe she had worn more clothes than those she bore upon her back just now. The last thing he needed was a bloody distraction.

  God’s teeth! He couldn’t think straight while staring at those luscious breasts of hers. And damnation! Who could help but stare when she stood all but naked before him!

  Which brought him to wonder yet again... what sort of man allowed his only daughter to roam the countryside free and naked as Eve?

  Och, but there were daughters who were governable, and daughters who were not, he reasoned.

  Had she been his wayward daughter, Iain might have locked her safely within a tower until the day she pledged her vows!

  Impertinent, sour-mouthed wench!

  While the rotten lot of them lay snoring upon their backs, Page sat, shivering with her back against a tree, arms twisted and bound behind her and a sour-tasting rag wedged within her mouth.

  Loathsome Scots!

  Not that she could have slept anyway, for she was much too miserable with worry and regret. Forsooth, she should never have come out alone. Why couldn’t she be content to simply sit within the solar and sew like other ladies?

  Why couldn’t she be what her father wished of her?

  Then again, she reflected somewhat bitterly, the answer to that question might better be known if only she knew what her father wished of her.

  The truth was that Page couldn’t please him—never had been able to please him. And what was worse, she wasn’t certain she wished to try anymore.

  She might not have to after tonight.

  The thought sent a shudder through her.

  What would they do to her once they discovered her father didn’t want her? The truth was that her father would no more give up the boy than he would spit in the king’s eye—not for her, he wouldn’t.

  Well, she told herself, she didn’t care.

  She truly didn’t.

  But her eyes stung with hot, angry tears.

  Well, she’d soon enough discover what they would do … if she didn’t manage an escape … so she set her wiles to that end. Trying not to deliberate on the dire possibilities should she fail, she regarded her captors.

  To her dismay, the original four had not come alone as she’d first suspected. Worse, she couldn’t precisely make out how many there were, for their limbs and bodies merged together in the darkness—like cadavers huddled together in a common grave.

  There were a lot of them, she surmised.

  They’d dragged her shrieking like a fishwife into their camp, and the lascivious looks she’d gotten from the lot of them had made her resolve never to look at a man full in the face again.

  Overweening boors!

  The MacKinnon in particular!

  She shuddered, remembering the way he’d looked at her, the knowing look in his eyes.

  Unreasonably, she found herself wondering what color his eyes were. Blue? Green? She hadn’t been able to make them out in the darkness, but she was certain they wouldn’t be so common as hers. Alas, but there was naught ordinary about the infuriating man.

  He had yet to return.

  Not that she cared one whit whether she ever saw his too comely face again, she assured herself, but—well, damnation, mayhap she did, and frowned at the admission, her brow furrowing as she contemplated that fact. ’Twas only natural, she reasoned, that she wouldn’t wish to be left alone with these men of his. She didn’t trust them.

  But had she anymore cause to trust the MacKinnon? a little voice nagged.

  It wasn’t precisely that she trusted him. Just that she didn’t mistrust him quite so much—although why she should feel even thus toward him, she couldn’t begin to comprehend. He was likely no better than the rest.

  Soon after she’d been bound to the tree, he and the one called Lagan had departed camp. She imagined they were scouting Balfour’s defenses as a precaution.

  Good for them, because her father was going to tell them to go to Hell, she was aggrieved to admit. It mattered not what she’d said, or what she secretly hoped, she wouldn’t delude herself into thinking otherwise. They were stuck with her, didn’t they know.

  If she didn’t freeze to death first.

  Or if she didn’t manage to escape.
>
  She heard their voices long before she spied them and her stomach lurched as they came from the woods. The MacKinnon and the one called Lagan—the boor who had shoved the despicable rag into her mouth. They stood whispering beside the fire. Something else she could thank them for—setting her so far from the fire’s heat, as wet as she was, and leaving her to freeze in the chill night air! Thoughtless, infuriating barbaric wretches!

  The firelight flickered between them, casting its copper tint against their bodies and faces, distorting their images. Caught between the eerie glow of the flame and the obscurity of shadow, the MacKinnon cut a daunting figure, to be sure. Dressed in a black woolen tunic and cloaked in his belted breacan, he stood at least six inches taller than her father in his thick leather-lined boots. In a leonine display of masculinity, his dark wavy mane was unbound and fell below his shoulders, and his stance was one bred of confidence. He was a man born to lead, she couldn’t help but cede.

  Was he a murderer, as well?

  The prospect made her throat tighten with renewed fear.

  Her heart lurched. What would he do when he discovered her father wouldn’t deal with him?

  She couldn’t even begin to make out their discourse, and then the one called Lagan left the MacKinnon’s side to jostle another man awake.

  He whispered something into the man’s ear and the man rose at once, shaking off his slumber. Together the two spoke to the MacKinnon and then stumbled off into the shadowy realm beyond the fire’s brightness.

  Only Page and the MacKinnon remained still awake.

  Starting at the realization, Page turned to look at him and gasped to find him simply standing there, watching her, the firelight playing upon his face, making his harsh features appear all the harsher for the contrasting shadows. She prayed he couldn’t see her where she sat so far from the light, and was relieved when he turned and bent to retrieve something that lay beside the fire. Her relief was short-lived, however, for he pivoted suddenly and came toward her, and a shock of pure hysteria skittered through her.

  Reacting instinctively, Page slammed her head backward against the tree trunk and swore a silent oath, closing her eyes, feigning sleep. Jesu, but she was being foolish! She knew it, and still couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t face him just now. She didn’t know why, she just couldn’t. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  He values you? the ghost of his voice whispered in her ear, and the question tormented her. She had to remind herself he’d not spoken it aloud. ’Twas merely her imagination mocking her, making her the fool.

  His footfall was light, but Page could make out the soft sound of moss surrendering beneath his leather-soled feet and knew the moment when he stood before her.

  Bare limbed.

  The thought accosted her from nowhere, and her heart gave a little start, beating faster as he crouched down beside her—at least she imagined he crouched. She could swear that he did, for she thought she felt the heat of his breath against her cheek.

  A sigh blew across her face.

  Or had she imagined it?

  Merciful Lord, was he watching her so intently?

  Nay... oh, nay...

  Her heart began to flounder, and she tried not to panic, tried to pretend he wasn’t hovering so close, scrutinizing her every breath, but failed miserably. She knew that he was, and was only grateful for the veil of darkness to conceal her when she felt the telltale flush creep up from her breast, to her throat and face, warming her.

  And then suddenly her heart slammed to a halt, for he touched her—sweet Mary, the way that he touched her.

  Her breath left her, and her body quivered as his hand cupped her face, the gesture so much a tender caress. She leaned her face hungrily into the warmth of his palm, and then realized what she’d done, and her eyes flew wide. She drew in a breath, and lifted her face to his.

  Their gazes met, held, locked.

  He didn’t remove his hand, and Page, though startled by the embrace, could scarce protest with the rag still filling her mouth. Scarce could she breathe. Scarce could she think.

  With a gentleness that belied his strength and size, he brushed his thumb across the hollow above her cheek, and Page closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears anew.

  How inconceivable it was that this man, this stranger, her captor, would be the very first to touch her so gently?

  “Dinna be weepin’,” he whispered.

  Was she? Page nearly choked on her denial. She hadn’t even realized.

  He removed the gag from her mouth and brought it to his nostrils. They flared at the stench and he glowered, tossing it away. She swallowed with difficulty. “Damn Lagan,” he grumbled, and shook his head in disgust.

  Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, but it wouldn’t have mattered, she wouldn’t have known what to say.

  So near, his face lost none of its masculine beauty.

  It held her mesmerized.

  He seemed so young to lead, she thought, despite that his hair proclaimed elsewise; dark as it was, the shock of white at his temples stood out distinctly against the black of his hair. It was braided, she noticed for the first time—the silver at his temples. How old was he? His youthful face declared six and twenty, no more, but his hair bespoke some two score years and more. His cheekbones were high, his nose perfectly aquiline, and his lips... his lips were the sort to make a woman fancy stolen kisses. And his eyes... she still couldn’t make out their color in the darkness, though she tried.

  Her heart beat a steady rhythm in her ears.

  “Ye’ve my word, lass, that ye’ll no’ be harmed.” His voice was low and husky. “Dinna look so woeful.”

  He stroked her cheek, and confusion flooded her. Why was he being so gentle? Jesu, but she didn’t know how to deal with this!

  Page jerked her face away from his touch. “I—I was not!”

  He arched a brow. “Weeping?”

  He lifted his hand abruptly and Page flinched, thinking he meant to strike her for the denial, but he brought his thumb to his lips, instead, sinking his teeth there. Watching her, he sucked the salt of her tears from his flesh. “Were ye no’, lass?”

  A shiver coursed through her at his gesture—the way that he addressed her—the way he continued to stare. She tried to ignore the heat that suffused her under his scrutiny, taking refuge in her anger. “No. I was not!”

  “Nay,” he agreed, still suckling at his thumb. “Of course not. You’re much too... fearless. Are ye no’?”

  He suckled his thumb an instant longer, then withdrew it from his mouth, and Page lapped at her lips gone suddenly dry. She swallowed convulsively.

  “Still... ye’ve my word... ye’ll no’ be harmed.”

  Page closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image of him kneeling before her. “How gracious,” she drawled, concealing a quiver. She opened her eyes once more, narrowing them, and her voice was steadier with anger. “In the meantime, my hands are bruising at my back!”

  His lips hinted at a smile—the rogue—a smile that snatched her breath away and made her heart flitter wildly. Jesu, it should have made her yearn to slap his face instead! God curse him for that! And her, too, for allowing herself to lose her composure over a comely face!

  Her wits were addled for certain!

  “Some things are necessary,” he told her without the slightest trace of remorse, “but verra well, I’ll grant ye a moment’s respite.” He fell back upon his rump and reached behind her to free her hands.

  “How generous... for a heathen Scot!”

  He merely chuckled at that, and it multiplied her confusion tenfold. What was wrong with the fool? Did he not realize he was supposed to be angered by her quips? Page wasn’t certain what to make of him—less so by the instant.

  He released her hands, and then slipped his fingers across the small of her back. She squealed in alarm, arching away from his touch. “What!” she shrieked, “do you think you are doing?”

  He didn’t bother to beg her pardon, n
or to remove his hand. It burned her flesh even through her shift.

  “You’re wet,” he announced.

  “Am I really?” She recovered her composure and glared at him vengefully. “How peculiar! I wonder if ‘tis because you abducted me wet from my swim... refused to allow me to dry... and then thrust me away in a damp corner far from the heat of the fire.”

  She tried to shrug away from his touch, to no avail. “Remove your hand from my person this instant!”

  His brows drew together, though his eyes glinted with unconcealed amusement. “You’re an impudent wench,” he said, with too little heat, but he complied at once. “Did your da beat you oft?”

  Once again Page found herself aggrieved by his question. “Nay!” she countered, but she swallowed the ache that rose like a goose egg in her throat. In truth, her father hadn’t cared enough even for that. She averted her gaze. “How dare you speak of him so!” she mustered herself to say. “My father... he would never...” She rubbed at her wrists, trying to ease the pain that flowed into them.

  Naught could ease the ache in her heart.

  “Well, then, mayhap he should have...”

  Page glared at him.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  It was a command, no matter that it was spoken so softly, and Page bristled. “I can see to them myself, thank you!”

  He sighed. “As you wish.”

  “Aye, ‘tis my wish!”

  “You’re a stubborn fashious wench,” he apprised her.

  “And you—” From the corner of her eye, she saw that he lifted his hands toward her, and Page flinched again. Aha! Now it began!

  He moved quickly and she was staggered to find he merely placed a dry gown over her head. Her own gown, for the material was familiar, soft and worn with age. The scent was hers too.

  And it was toasty warm.

  He’d gone after it—but not only had he retrieved it, he’d gone so far as to dry it before the fire.