It was a good thing she loathed him so … there was little danger in losing her heart to the darksome brute.
“He asked to go hunting.”
“And you let him?” Page surmised, somewhat surprised.
“Dinna let his sweet face fool you. My son is a capable hunter.” Page couldn’t help but hear the note of concern along with the pride in his voice. “Malcom’s wi’ his clansmen now, lass. No harm will come to him. My cousin Lagan will see to it.”
Her brows lifted. “Lagan? Lagan is your cousin?”
“Aye.”
Page averted her gaze once more. “I never would have guessed. The two of you seem so little alike.”
“Really?” he answered, narrowing his eyes at her. “Curious, that... I never would have taken ye for a Mary, either, but ‘tis Mary you are—is that no’ right?”
Page furrowed her brow. Did he not believe her?
Or was he simply making the point that she should not judge?
“Often things are no’ what they seem,” he disclosed.
Page’s heartbeat quickened. “And what is it you are trying to say, sir?”
“Merely that you dinna recall me to a Mary. The name doesna suit you.”
She released the breath she’d not realized she’d held. “Really,” she said, sounding bored, although she wanted more than anything to ask him what name he thought better suited her. But she didn’t dare. The last she wished was for him to discover her shame—nor did she care to return to elaborate upon the differences between him and his cousin.
What could she possibly say?
Certainly she wasn’t about to admit that he seemed the more kindly of the two. He was her gaoler, after all. How could she think him kind?
“I suggest you address the matter with my father if you do not care for the name. ’Twas his choice, after all,” she lied.
“Was it?” he said, and returned to tending his mount, without bothering to await her reply. Though it was as crude a dismissal as Page had ever received, she was silently grateful for the reprieve. At the instant, there was a breach in her armor much too wide to close, and she needed time to mend it.
Anger, she knew, was her refuge, and yet... though she tried... she couldn’t even summon a shred of ire for a man who showed such devotion to his son.
Chapter Eight
He’d managed to lure the others away, to hunt in some other remote part of these woods.
And Malcom... As expected, the boy had wandered away from them... straight into his waiting hands.
At long last, everything was going as planned. A plan that was far too long coming to fruition. A plan he’d thought to have fully realized six years earlier, when he’d driven Iain’s young wife mad with fear of her new husband and had fueled her with so much hatred for him that she’d preferred death to bearing his touch ever again.
It was only too bad she hadn’t committed the deed before giving birth to Iain’s brat.
And yet, it gave him some measure of satisfaction to know that his father’s clan thought lain her murderer, for lain had been the last to see her alive. He smiled at that, knowing his half brother would strangle with guilt over the memory until the day he died— well, mayhap that day would come sooner than expected.
Aye, mistakes had been made.
When King David had sought his aid in gaining custody of Iain’s son, in response to his own request for David’s favor, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to rid himself of Malcom. He’d only too soon realized that it accomplished naught. David’s intent had been merely to install the boy as a ward of the English court, far away, and safe even from him. Were anything to happen to Iain, Malcom would then be brought back to take his place as David’s poppet.
Nay, better that the boy was dead.
Aye, for it might be only a matter of time before Malcom gave him away, at any rate. The wee brat had awakened from his drugged slumber in the middle of the night, and he’d had to croon him to sleep. Och, but it had been a sour note he’d sung.
No more mistakes now, for he’d waited far too long.
Keeping sight of Malcom, he withdrew an arrow from his quiver and notched it within his bow. And then he waited for just the right moment...
He wanted Malcom’s wee body to fall into the brush, so he wouldn’t have to touch him afterward. He wanted this kill to be a clean one, with no blood on his hands to give him away. Nor did he intend for the body to be found until he was far enough from the scene so as to be free from suspicion.
“Malcom! There ye are, lad!” Ranald bellowed, coming into view.
The bowman cursed silently, and gently eased the bowstring back into place.
“I was following a rabbit!” Malcom declared. “Look, Ranald, look! I think he’s in there!” He pointed to the bush that separated the bowman from his prey.
Ranald scattered the bush, peering within, over and about, and then he froze, meeting the bowman’s gaze through the leafage. “There’s naught in the bush, lad,” he said stiffly. “Go on wi’ ye now.”
Malcom’s face fell. “I want to make my da proud!” he said. “I wanna catch him a rabbit!”
“Aye, well, ye willna make him proud by wanderin’ aboot all alone and getting yourself lost,” Ranald scolded. “Go, now, and find the others—quickly, lest I tell your da ye were a wee rotten scoundrel and strayed away. He willna let ye come again, I think.”
“Dinna tell!” Malcom pleaded, thrusting out his lower lip.
“Go, then,” Ranald instructed.
Malcom turned at once and fled.
Ranald turned again to face the bowman hidden within the bush. “I canna let ye do this,” he said once Malcom was gone.
“Ye canna stop me.”
“I should never have helped ye to begin wi’,” Ranald hissed into the bush. He shook his head. “However did I allow ye to talk me into it?”
“You’re my verra best friend,” the bowman said simply, quietly.
Ranald’s face turned florid with anger. “No’ if ye plan to murder an innocent laddie, I am no’! I’ll have no part in this treachery! Ye said ye dinna wish to hurt him! Ye said ye only wished to have him gone! I helped ye do that, but I’ll no’ be helpin’ anymore!” he swore. “I’m going to tell Iain! He should have known long ago. ‘Tis his right to know the truth—all of it!”
“Nay!” the bowman snarled. “Ye willna tell him that he is my brother, Ranald! I swore I wouldna, and you willna either! I trusted you. You are the only one who knows, aside from Glenna, and I canna let you tell that tale.”
“He deserves to know the truth—and I will tell him, if you willna!” And with that, Ranald turned to go.
“Nay, you willna,” the bowman said with certainty, and lifted the loaded bow.
Ranald stopped and slowly turned. “You willna use it,” he predicted. “You wouldna—”
Without hesitation, the arrow flew, striking true to its aim, straight into Ranald’s heart.
Ranald clutched at the shaft as he fell backward. “Bluidy bastard!” he swore.
When Ranald did not rise, the bowman made his way to where he lay, clutching the arrow still. The trickle of blood from Ranald’s lips against the deathlike pallor of his face held the bowman captivated for an instant.
“Ye were... my friend,” Ranald choked out, his eyes liquid with tears.
“No longer,” the bowman said softly, without remorse, and stamped the arrow deeper with the heel of his boot. He drove it down until it passed into the soft ground. The death rattle came as a strangled gurgle from Ranald’s throat. Satisfied, the bowman bent to snap the remainder of the shaft in two, taking with him the feathered fletching. It was his habit to use the downy white feathers of an owl for his shaft- end, and he would not have his mark recognized by those who would know.
“You shouldn’t have betrayed me, Ranald,” he said to the lifeless body. “I would have rewarded ye well. And damn ye, too.” For now he would have to wait for a new chance to present itself. It w
ould raise too much suspicion were both Ranald and the boy to turn up missing now, particularly since the three of them had together wandered away from the rest of the hunting party. It wouldn’t look so good if only he returned. Malcom was likely back safe in their fold already.
Damn Ranald, the meddling bastard.
It wasn’t long before Page rediscovered her ire.
The hunting party returned with quarry in hand, and while they were charitable enough to share a generous portion of their catch with their “hostage,” afterward they immediately found a sturdy tree and leashed her to it—like some mongrel they didn’t wish to have stray away. Page just sat there, watching them spread their breacans to sleep upon, all the while seething with anger.
How could they expect her to sleep like this each night? All night! Surely they wouldn’t yet again?
And the MacKinnon... he hadn’t bothered even to acknowledge her since plucking her from his mount. He’d been preoccupied since the hunting party had returned. Lagan had spoken to him briefly, and ever since he’d been in a fit of fury over something—something the boy had done perchance, for he went to Malcom at once and spoke to him sternly, sitting the boy down before him while they supped, and eyeing him reprovingly. Malcom, for his part, appeared suitably repentant. He sat before his father, sulking, until even his papa took pity and patted his head. The boy threw himself into his father’s arms then, and squeezed fervently, his little arms scarce able to reach about the MacKinnon’s broad chest..
Page found herself staring, unable to keep herself from it.
Jesu, but he was a fine specimen—his shoulders broad and well muscled, his body well formed. He appeared to be a man unafraid of strenuous labor, and his body evidenced that fact. She imagined him toiling alongside his kinsmen, with the sweltering sun upon his back. As first she’d thought, his skin was swarthy. His dark hair was striking, and the white hair at his temples was nothing less than startling in contrast to the color of his skin and his youthful features. She wondered again how old he was.
She wished Cora were here. Born in the Lowlands of Scotia, Cora was the daughter of her father’s new leman. She’d impressed Page with her command of both the Highland and the English tongues. She was also the first and only friend Page had ever had. Cora would know what they were saying. As it was, Page could only make out that Malcom “wouldn’t do it again.” But what it was he was promising not to do again, she couldn’t begin to decipher.
She watched them together, the way the MacKinnon swept the hair from his son’s eyes, and found herself wistful.
God’s truth, but it was a glorious sight to behold... father and son
Would that her father had been so gentle after a reprimanding. She’d have given much for him to look at her just so... if only once. She sighed then, for she might have simply wished he’d been so gentle in his rebuking of her as the MacKinnon had been with his son. But he hadn’t been, and she couldn’t turn back time.
There was no sense in weeping over it now.
It was only that … now, at last, when her father revealed some glimmer of affection for her—he’d risked Henry’s wrath in bartering for her freedom and that had to count for something—MacKinnon stole the chance from her.
“Och, but ye could set a mon to flames wi’ that glower, lass.”
Startled, Page’s gaze shot upward to find the old man, Angus, standing over her, arms akimbo as he watched her. She turned her glower upon him then. “Would that I could,” she remarked. “Do you not have something better to do than to ogle me, sir?”
He further vexed her by simply chuckling at her question.
“Prithee, I see little humor in this!” Page hissed at him.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Aye, but there’s humor to be seen, for certain, lass,” he returned cryptically.
Page considered kicking the old man, but doubted she could reach him from where she sat bound. “Why can you not set me free?” she protested, jerking at the ties that bound her wrists. “Why must I remain bound to this accursed tree? What have you to fear of me?”
The old man scratched at his beard and shook his head. “Well, I dunno,” he admitted, and proceeded to sit down beside her. He leaned over to whisper, “We’ve been wondering the same thing ourselves, ye see.” He lifted his brows and nodded at her, as though he thought she knew what he was speaking of.
Crazed old fool.
Page narrowed her eyes at him. “Really?” she asked, sounding taxed. “And what, perchance, did you come up with?”
Again he chuckled, and leaned to whisper, “No’ a thing, lass.”
Page snorted, and rolled her eyes. “Try an eye for an eye,” she proposed, mocking his laird’s justification. “And make yourself at home, why do you not?” She eyed the ground where he’d plopped himself down, and then turned to smile at him grimly. “In fact, if you would be so kind as to unbind my hands,” she suggested in an acidly sweet tone, “I should be verra pleased to run and fetch you a wee dram like a good little lass.” She batted her lashes at him for effect.
He didn’t laugh this time. Instead, he cocked his head reproachfully. “You dinna see me tryin’ to butcher your tongue, now d’ you?”
“You dinna have to try,” she returned flippantly, smiling fiercely. “I would venture to say you do it quite well naturally.” She lifted a brow. “At any rate, I thought it a rather a good impersonation.”
Angus made to rise, shaking his head. “Och, but ye are a pawky wench!” he swore, grimacing. “‘Tis a mystery to me as to why the lad feels so beholden to save—”
“You for myself,” the MacKinnon broke in, scowling down at Angus as the old man rose to his feet.
“Och, you’re welcome to her, Iain! ‘Tis glad I am to be leavin’ her to ye! I swear that men have died by duller weapons than that vicious tongue o’ hers!”
Page blinked, her gaze flying upward to meet the MacKinnon’s.
Iain.
The old man had called him Iain.
To save her for himself? She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Surely he hadn’t said what she thought he’d said? Or if he had, he couldn’t possibly have meant what she thought he meant. Her brows drew together, for he couldn’t... possibly... want her?
Nay, she decided. So he must be hiding something. The old man had said that he felt beholden to save—what? Her? But from what?
“Busy makin’ friends, are ye, lass?” he asked rudely.
Page blinked, trying to recall every word of the exchange between the two, and nodded her head. “Aye...”
He lifted a brow, and his beautiful lips turned faintly at the corners. “Wool-gathering, are ye?”
Page’s brow furrowed. “I—”
Jesu, she couldn’t remember the question. She peered up at him, frowning, for she wasn’t about to ask the arrogant wretch what it was he’d said.
He grinned down at her suddenly, flashing white teeth. “‘Tis said,” he apprised, “that the mind is the first to leave us. Shall we begin the funeral preparations so soon?” He lifted his brows in unison.
Page’s cheeks flared. “You’re the one with the silver hair!” she pointed out baldly, averting her gaze, unable to bear his scrutiny an instant longer.
“So I am, lass.” She glanced up to spy the gleam of good humor in his gold-flecked eyes. “So I am.”
“How old are you anyway?” Page flung back at him, curiosity getting the better of her. “Two score years?” She cocked her head, and added sweetly, “More?”
He merely chuckled at her impudence, and her ire intensified. Lord, but how dare he be so impervious!
“No’ so auld as that, wench,” he yielded, his grin turning frankly lascivious. “But auld enough to discern a virgin’s blush—and, I warrant, auld enough to know desire when I spy it.”
He had the audacity to wink at her.
Page’s gasp was audible, and when she could find her tongue to speak again, her words were strangled with fury. “How dar
e you!”
His grin turned more crooked still. “Well, now, because I’m a barbarous Scotsman, that’s how I dare. Have ye no’ heard, lass? We’re a randy lot, we Scots.”
“You’re a mighty crude lot!” she returned. “And feckless, too!”
“Aye, and dinna forget lusty,” he added, and winked again.
Sweet Jesu, if it was his intent to distract her, then he was surely succeeding in the endeavor, for she was flustered to her very toes. Page scowled at him. “Bedamned! Is that all you can think of?”
“Aye, wench.” His smile turned wicked now, and his voice softened. “When I’m looking at a bonny lass, ‘tis all I can think of.”
Page was momentarily dumbstruck by his brashness. She averted her face, her heartbeat quickening at his shameless cajolery. He was naught more than a smooth-tongued knave to speak such lies!
And yet...
“Y-you cannot,” she stammered, and shook her head. “Y-you cannot possibly think me...” Sweet Mary, but she could scarce even speak the word!
“Bonny?” he supplied.
Page’s gaze lifted to his.
He was scowling now, it seemed, staring as though he would see into her very soul, but he said nothing.
He didn’t answer.
It was just as she supposed—they were merely false words from a man who cared nothing for her feelings. ’Twas simply his way to be so glib and he couldn’t possibly mean it... and yet...
The look in his eyes... the way that he stared...
Could he?
Chapter Nine
Iain was staggered by the anguish so apparent in those liquid dark eyes.
Christ, did she not realize?
Could she truly not know?
In truth, he’d meant the words as a ploy, a simple flirtation to distract her, and yet it was the truth he spoke. Faced with her pain and her sorrow, he forgot where they stood for the moment, forgot that his men were likely to be watching them, forgot that they were supposed to be enemies—he the accursed foe, who’d dared steal her from her father, she the daughter of the man who’d stolen his son.
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