The MacKinnon's Bride Page 4

  Shock filtered through her. Stunned, she allowed him to draw the gown over her body, smooth it down, and like a poppet, she thrust out her arms to place within the sleeves.

  Her throat squeezed shut so that she could not speak. No one had ever elicited so many emotions from her as did this stranger. No one had ever looked after her so. No one had ever worried whether she was comfortable, or hungry, or lonely...

  Her heart wrenched, and once again, despair threatened to strangle her.

  She couldn’t believe he was treating her so... kindly.

  He was staring at her strangely... as though he would read her thoughts. And then his expression shuttered and his brows drew together, as he commanded, “Place your hands at your back.”

  Page recanted her opinion of him at once and gave him a glare he was like never to forget.

  He cocked his head, and entreated, “Dinna make me force ye, lass...”

  He could, she realized, and she gritted her teeth. Still, she couldn’t make herself obey quite so easily. “You’re a wretch, you realize?”

  He chuckled, seeming impervious to her wrath. The man wore his good humor like an accursed suit of armor!

  “So I’ve been told,” he confessed without apology. “Now place your hands at your back so I can bind them.”

  “Why can you not leave them free?” she protested, but obeyed nonetheless. Better to bide her time and choose her battles wisely.

  It might help to know how many men she must do battle with and she wondered if he would tell her. “What have you to fear of me?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “You’ve fifty men and more...”

  “Do I?” he answered noncommittally, peering up at her, his lips slightly crooked.

  The wretch! He knew very well what she was asking and wouldn’t even give her so meager a concession!

  “As for your hands, wench, I’m simply no’ foolhardy enough to allow ye to remain unfettered. I’ll be needin’ my sleep tonight and dinna have in mind to play nursemaid to a foolish lass who doesna seem to know enough to keep her tongue stilled.”

  He reached behind her to bind her wrists together behind the tree, this time not so tightly. “I’m sorry Lagan was so harsh wi’ ye,” he said, testing the rope. Page cursed him for his small gesture. It only served to discompose her all the more.

  She decided to ignore the apology—and the gesture, as well. “Surely you cannot expect me to sleep this way!”

  “As I’ve said, lass...” He met her gaze. “Some things canna be helped.” He proceeded, then, to adjust her gown so that her legs were covered, and Page bristled at his manipulations. She didn’t wish to be appreciative—didn’t want to be indebted to this man for any reason at all!

  Did he treat his son so patiently? So thoughtfully? She couldn’t help but feel a prick of envy at the notion.

  Then, too, his actions only served to stress that her own father had lied yet again. The man before her no more beat his son than he would beat her. The thought both relieved and aggrieved her at once.

  Only belatedly did she realize he was staring. “What are you looking at?” she asked peevishly.

  His lips curved. “I should think it would be evident.”

  Page lifted both brows. “Are you wondering whether I’d make a tasty meal?” she ventured caustically. “Don’t bother, you would find me bitter, I assure you.”

  His lips turned a scant more. “Tempting thought... but nay.” His expression turned sober. He reached suddenly to brush a strand of tangled hair from her face, and Page fancied biting off his fingers, so much fury was she feeling. He merely held it there before her face, separating the damp strands between his fingers. “I was simply wonderin’ at what ye were thinking, lass.”

  Lass.

  The way he spoke the single word... as though it were laden with affection, made her shudder to her soul. “Naught,” she lied, and nearly choked on her anger and her grief. “Only that my father—” He tucked the strand behind her ear, and her thoughts scattered to the winds.

  “I know... he’ll pluck oot my eyes,” he finished for her, sighing, as he untucked the checkered blanket from his belt. He drew it from his back, and covered her with its formidable length.

  To Page’s dismay, it was warm with the heat of his body, and the bestirring scent of him rose to accost her; sunshine, horseflesh and man. Unreasonably, she found herself wondering whether his skin would be swarthy from the sun, or pale—somehow, despite the fact that she could not see him clearly through the shadows, she knew he would be dark from his labors in the sun.

  She imagined him bare chested, working... and then realized he wore no breeches, and expunged the image at once, shocked by the realization. Jesu, but she felt herself grow warm even at the thought of him bared to the bottom. She found her protests silenced by the fierce pounding of her traitorous heart.

  Until he stretched out before her suddenly and rested his head upon her lap. Then she found her voice at once. “What, in the name of God, do you think you are doing, sir?”

  He grinned up at her and had the audacity to wink, as well. “Sleeping, o’ course.” His long hair spilled over her lap, dark as ebony silk.

  Jesu, but he was bare bottomed beneath his tunic! “Not on me, you’ll not!”

  “Ah, but ye’ve my breacan, lass,” he pointed out quite reasonably, his voice silky. “Where else would ye have me sleep but here?”

  “In a tree for all I care!” she hissed, and squeezed her eyes shut. No use, the image accosted her behind closed lids with greater detail. “Stop calling me lass!” she snarled, her eyes going wide.

  His eyes glinted by the light of the moon. “Aye, lass,” he agreed, “but then what would ye have me call ye if no’ lass?”

  He was mocking her, Page realized, and she found herself mute with anger and chagrin. She’d be hung by her toes before she’d reveal her name to the likes of him! “Oaf! Take your accursed breacan! I’ll not allow you to sleep with me! Get off me!”

  His lips curved roguishly. “Ah, but I’m no’ sleepin’ wi’ ye, lass. I’m sleepin’ on ye,” he pointed out, without the least compunction. “And nay, I’ll not. What better way to keep you warm and free from harm?”

  “What better way to watch me while you sleep, isn’t that what you really mean!”

  His grin widened. “That too.”

  “Arrogant wretch! I could spit upon you, you realize. And I might do that! Just you wait and see!”

  “Aye... ye could,” he agreed, “but then I’d be sorely taxed and have to send Lagan to guard ye, instead and I’d be guessin’ my randy cousin would take great pleasure in a buxom English lassie for a pilloo.” He snuggled a little to prove his point, burying his face into her lap, nuzzling between her thighs. His chest expanded with his intake of breath, and he sighed audibly, sounding as contented as a child left to fill his belly with tarts.

  Page’s stomach floated into her ribs. Something deep inside her woman’s core quickened at his brash male gesture, and heat trickled into her nether regions.

  “Och, but if ye dinna mind Lagan’s wooing...”

  He made to rise, and Page shrieked. “Nay!”

  He chuckled, and lay back down at once. “I didna believe ye would relish the thought. G’nite, then, lass.” He snuggled his head once more, like an innocent boy with his beloved mother.

  But he was no innocent.

  Nor was she beloved.

  And he was lying within her lap!

  Bare bottomed!

  So was she for that matter.

  “Overbearing brute!” she spat, glaring at him fiercely. “’Tis God’s own truth that the only harm I have to fear is that from you!”

  “Then ye’ve naught to fear, at all,” he countered, shifting indolently to his side and thrusting an oversized arm over her leg, cozying himself.

  His arm was as big as her thigh!

  “Anyway, ye’ve only the one night to endure,” he assured her. “Tomorrow ye’ll be safe again wi’ your da.”


  She wanted to slap his arrogant face—wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh! What gall! “Get off!” she cried, and tried to free her hands. She muttered a fierce oath when they refused to come free from their bindings.

  “Och, wench, does your father know ye’ve such a rude tongue?” he asked her.

  “‘Tis none of your bloody concern! Beast! Rest yourself comfortable, why do you not!” She fought the urge to scream, knowing that the last thing she needed now was to wake his men.

  “Dinna mind if I do,” he murmured.

  He had the nerve to close his eyes, dismissing her once and for all, and Page wished she could box his ears. She tried to move her legs, but he held her pinned irrevocably with his weight. She ceased her struggles only to summon every blasphemy she’d ever heard uttered. “Oaf!” she hissed. “Swine! Knave! Scot!”

  His lips curved into a smile.

  Her brows collided. She tried to think of worse. “Beast! Demon! Blackhearted dev—”

  “Ye’re to be well commended on your mastery of the language,” he said only.

  “And you shall never get your son back!” she swore in anger.

  His expression sobered at once, although he still didn’t open his eyes. “For your sake, lass, ye’d better be hopin’ I do.”

  Page felt hopelessness seep into her very soul. She didn’t know what to say. There was nothing left to say! She hadn’t lied. The MacKinnon wouldn’t get his son back. Her father wouldn’t deal with him, and she was doomed. Doomed!

  “If I thought ye would answer me true,” he said after a long moment, “I would ask ye how my son fares.” His eyes remained closed, but Page could see that his jaw remained taut. Worry was etched upon his features.

  Curse him! For no matter that she might despise him, she found she couldn’t bring herself to deny him the answer he sought. This one thing she could never withhold from an anxious father.

  She sighed irascibly. “And if I were inclined to answer, I would say he fares well enough. He’s not been abused, if ‘tis what you fear—not by us! He simply will not speak, is all.”

  She could see the strain ease somewhat from his face, and found herself envious of his son, that he would have a father who fretted for him so. But then... fathers always valued their sons, did they not?

  Her heart twisted painfully.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, and didn’t deign to speak to her again.

  Page averted her face, trying to ignore the stranger lying so intimately in her lap.

  It was a futile gesture. Never in her life had she been more aware of another human being.

  Safe again with her father, indeed!

  The image was laughable. Security was something more than simply being free from harm. She knew that instinctively... and yet... she’d never truly known the feeling at all. Security was an alien concept, for it spoke to her of warmth and caring... a welcoming embrace... things she’d never known. She snorted and refused to look down upon him again until he was snoring beneath her. Fast asleep, and so easily! She ought to spit on him for truth. That would surely show him! She ought to drool all over him, too!

  She writhed beneath him, trying to dislodge him from her limbs, to no avail. His weight, as he’d intended, made it impossible. Wretched, insufferable man!

  She ought to scream in his ear—but that, she counseled herself, would only serve to wake the rest of his lechers, as well. Nor did she wish him to follow through with his threat and send Lagan to guard her instead. That one, she trusted the least of all.

  And that brought her to another thought entirely... how pitiable it was that the one man who, by rights, should have been the most cruel was the one man who had been the most gentle.

  It made too little sense.

  Close upon the heels of that conclusion came her most nonsensical yet. It occurred to her, as she gazed down at her abductor’s too comely profile, that she still hadn’t yet determined the color of his eyes.

  What would he do when her father refused to deal with him?

  A frisson passed down her spine; fear?

  She refused to acknowledge it.

  Her last coherent thought before she dozed was not unlike that of a stray pup’s, she reflected somewhat lamentably... for it occurred to her to wonder, then, if the MacKinnon would think to keep her.

  God forgive her, but the foolish notion kindled just the tiniest spark of... something... Something so absurdly unreasonable, she refused to give it name.

  chapter 4

  Though Iain forced his body to rest, his mind worked ceaselessly through the night.

  In his half-sensate state, he was wholly aware of where he lay. He could hear the lassie’s even, steady breathing when she dozed at last, and her fitful slumber when her dreams disturbed her.

  He understood what those soft cries bespoke, for his own nights were too oft plagued by demons—worse since Malcom’s abduction.

  She was afeared, he realized, and guilt pricked at him. Though she had too much pride to cower before him while awake, in her dreams she could scarce keep herself from it.

  Despite that she was his enemy’s flesh and blood, Iain could only admire her. She’d masked her fear well, had stood up to him like the fiercest of she-wolves. In defense of his son, even! He only wished he didn’t have to resort to such measures that would cause her such distress, but it couldn’t be helped.

  He would do anything to ensure Malcom’s return.

  He was full awake come first light, but loath to move lest he wake her. For the longest interval, he lay, listening to the easy rhythm of her breathing, and savoring the delicate scent of the woman upon whom he was so intimately nestled. He smiled, remembering the indignant tone of her voice when he’d dared insinuate himself upon her person.

  He hadn’t intended to be so bold—had only meant to sleep beside, not atop her—but the beguiling scent and sight of her had appealed to his baser instincts. And then, as he knelt over her, bantering words with her, listening to her stubbornly insist that she could fend for herself, that she didn’t need his aid, and watching her stroke the blood back into her aching wrists, a strange tenderness had stolen over him. She wasn’t so strong as she appeared, he sensed, and he fully intended to hasten the negotiations and see her safely returned to her father.

  In truth, had she been any other woman, in any other circumstance, he might have liked to know her better.

  His nostrils flared as he drew the essence of her into his lungs. His body reacted to her siren’s perfume like a man famished and scenting Heaven’s manna.

  He opened his eyes and peered up into her face, trying to ignore the insistent burn of his loins.

  She slept still, her head lolled forward. Touched by the faint morning light, her features were soft and delicate, hardened only by the memory of her stubborn temper. His lips curved slightly at the image of her standing before him, fists clenched at her sides.

  Her father would pluck out his eyes, would he?

  Vixen.

  Her hair was the color of burnt umber. Tightly braided at her back, it was of undeterminable length, but the curls that fell loose about her face were long enough to sweep his forehead. The feel of it upon his flesh hardened him fully, and he had to restrain himself from drawing a lock into his mouth to savor. He reached out, instead, testing a soft curl between his fingertips.

  Her lashes were long and sooty, he noted, darker than they might have been for one whose skin was so fair.

  And her lips... they were her best feature, he decided, full and luscious... made to suckle.

  His gaze shifted to her breasts. Rising and falling with her slumber, they were her next best attribute, he resolved. High and round and full, they were made to nourish a man’s bairn... to whet a man’s appetite... to be suckled and loved.

  Bloody hell.

  Iain snapped his eyes shut, constraining his thoughts, and shuddered. Lifting his head, he rolled free of her at once, telling himself that he had no need to be preoccupied wi
th some wench’s bosom—or her mouth!

  Not now.

  Certainly not hers!

  Careful not to wake her, he knelt beside her, bracing his body against her so that she might lean into him, and then he reached behind the tree to unbind her wrists. Once liberated, she slumped sideways. He caught her, and eased her down upon the ground to inspect her wrists for damage. He frowned as he examined them. Though he’d taken care not to bind them too tightly, they were chafed nevertheless. They must have pained her, and yet she’d spoken nary a word in protest. Gently he began to massage her wrists and hands, her fingers, and was surprised to find them coarse to the touch, not soft as he’d imagined. His brows furrowed as he turned them, considering their callused condition.

  His gaze returned to her face to find her awake and watching, the strangest look nestled deep within her soulful eyes... eyes so deep a brown, they recalled him to some cool, dark cavern. They drew him just as surely as his childhood sanctuary had—the great stone cairn that had lured him despite his father’s admonitions and curses—with the promise of secrets to unfold.

  What secrets had she to be discovered?

  She jerked her hand free and scrambled to sit, scooting away. “Haven’t you a bargain to put forth?” she asked him, her voice throaty from slumber. She lifted a brow. “Or have you changed your mind already, and decided you cannot part with me, after all?”

  “Troublesome wench,” Iain said without much heat. He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You just dinna quit, do ye, lass? What do you think? That I’d risk my son for the comfort of some wench’s lap? I dinna think so.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she answered, hugging herself, and eyeing him disdainfully. “I forget myself, but he’s your son.” And then she asked with narrowed eyes, “I wonder, would you do the same for a daughter?”

  Iain merely stared at her, his sense of unease sharpening. “Of a certainty, lass,” he answered after a moment’s deliberation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’d do the same for any one o’ my clan. Would no’ your da?”

  She lifted her chin, cocked her head, and smiled slightly. “We shall see, shall we not?” Her smile deepened when he frowned.