Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Momentarily shocked, Page crushed the cloth fragment within her fist and instinctively buried her hand deeper within her skirts.

  His lips twisted with unconcealed contempt and his gaze shifted to the hand she’d shielded. “Drop the bluidy cloth,” he charged her.

  Page stiffened in the saddle, her gaze flying about in alarm.

  “Och, wench, I’ll no’ be exposin’ ye,” he assured her.

  Her gaze snapped back to his face. “You... you’ll not?”

  He shook his head, eyes gleaming. “I want ye gone, e’en more than you wish to go,” he swore. “But if ye willna drop the accursed thing, wi’ our luck, ye’ll wander in circles and end up right back in our bluidy camp.”

  Page frowned, growing more and more confused. “But... I... I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “What of your laird?” She cast a nervous glance at the MacKinnon’s back. “I... I thought he...”

  “Wanted ye?” The behemoth snorted and then turned to glance at his chieftain. “A mon says many things in a moment of... weakness.”

  His gaze returned to Page, and her face heated as she remembered the moment she and the MacKinnon had shared the night before.

  His moment of weakness.

  What is it I have to fear? she recalled asking him.

  That I might want ye, he’d whispered.

  Jesu! Had everyone else overheard, as well? If Page had cared one whit what these people thought of her, then she would have been riddled with shame. But she didn’t care, she told herself. And she was not.

  He scratched at his forehead. “I tell ye true... the MacKinnon doesna want ye any more than the rest o’ us do,” he told her.

  Page said nothing in response, merely glared at him. Somehow, his words wounded, though she told herself she didn’t care. After all, wanting a woman in a moment of physical weakness was certainly not the same as wanting for a lifetime. She knew that.

  “‘Tis God’s own truth I’d be doin’ Iain a favor,” he persisted. “He simply doesna wish to have your death upon his conscience, is all. And he doesna have to if you’ll but drop the bloody cloth.”

  Deny it all she wished, but the truth pained her. Her confusion intensified with the ache in her heart. Something niggled at her... something... He didn’t wish to have her death upon his conscience? And yet why should he have her death upon his conscience unless he meant to kill her? And he didn’t want her... but he’d taken her, nevertheless?

  Something was not right.

  He’d said he’d taken her out of revenge... an eye for an eye, she reminded herself. And then, too, he had said he’d wanted her. Last night. Or that he might want her—Lord, but she was growing confused!

  “But...” Page averted her gaze, unwilling to show him her pain, or the upheaval of her thoughts. “He said—”

  “Never mind what he said. Drop the cloth,” he commanded her quietly. “Drop it now, and then keep them droppin’ till ye’re sittin’ bare arsed upon poor Ranald’s mount. I’ll shield ye... and then I’ll help ye to escape when the time comes. Do it!” he hounded her.

  Page stared a long moment at the MacKinnon’s back.

  He was preoccupied with his son, never the least aware of her presence. He didn’t want her—couldn’t possibly—and why should he?

  She peered at the rest of the men, watching them a moment longer. Not a one of them seemed to be the least concerned with the discussion she and Broc were having together.

  For truth, it seemed she was unwanted.

  Jesu, but it seemed to be her destiny.

  The ache in her heart intensified. Why? Her brows drew together. Why should she care one whit what these people felt for her? She couldn’t possibly have thought they’d want her, after all? That they would take her as one of their own into their fold? She couldn’t have possibly hoped?

  How disgustingly foolish she was, for she suspected that some silent aching part of her had longed for just those things.

  “Drop it,” Broc demanded again, and Page moved her hand out from her skirts. She held her fist clenched at her side, concealed between them.

  He eyed her closed hand expectantly, and she was uncertain whether to drop the fragment or nay. It could be a trap, she realized. In truth, he might well be trying to coax the evidence from her hand...

  And then again, nay, for all he would need do was utter a single word to his laird, and then her ploy would be finished... and he’d not done so.

  “Unless ye dinna wish to go,” he taunted her. Page met his mocking blue gaze. “Are ye so smitten wi’ the MacKinnon already, English? D’ ye want him to want you?” He lifted a pale brow in challenge. “Is that it?”

  Glaring at him, Page opened her hand, releasing the piece of cloth. It fluttered down between cantering hooves.

  He merely smiled. “There now,” he said. “That wasna so difficult, was it?”

  “Scot!” She spat the word as though it were a blasphemy, but he seemed impervious to her anger. “Jesu! But I can scarce wait to be free of the lot of you!”

  “Guid,” the giant said, grinning. “Because the feeling is mutual.”

  “Bloody behemoth!” she hissed at him. “Do you oft make it a practice to tyrannize those weaker than you?”

  His grin suddenly turned into a frown, and he seemed genuinely insulted by her question. Good! Let him be!

  “I’d rather be a bluidy behemoth,” he grumbled, “than an impertinent little dwarf.”

  Page straightened her spine, utterly insulted. “I am not a dwarf, you despotic oaf!” She stared at him, wondering if he was blind. “I am tall for a woman, I’ll have you know—or mayhap Scots women all are bloody behemoths, too?” He didn’t react enough to Page’s liking and she added spitefully, “Or mayhap you wouldn’t know? Perchance all women run in fear of you!”

  Scarlet color crept up Broc’s fair neck and into his pretty face, and Page was wholly shocked to find that her words had unerringly hit the mark. With a face like the one he possessed, she’d never have guessed. His blue eyes were clear and bright, and his features well defined. He had not the stark, masculine beauty of the MacKinnon’s face, but he was comely nonetheless. Guilt stung her, though she told herself he deserved every word.

  “Do you not have a woman, Broc?” she asked, trying to soothe his bruised feelings, though she knew not why she should.

  The giant straightened his spine, his disposition surly as he revealed, “I have a dog. What need have I for a woman?”

  He turned away, his face bright red, and Page nipped at her lip to keep from grinning at his innocent question—his even more callow reply. Sweet Mary, but even she knew what a man needed with a woman! She’d certainly spied enough lovers in the shadows of Aldergh.

  “She’s a verra smart dog,” he added defensively, though he didn’t bother to look at her. “The smartest dog I’ve ever known!”

  Page didn’t reply.

  “Loyal, too,” he added, and she nearly burst into hysterical laughter at his plaintive tone.

  Good Lord! She continued to stare, and had to resist the urge to breach the barrier between them, to put her hand upon his arm and soothe his injured pride.

  He scratched rather earnestly at his groin area, and then the back of his ear, and Page grimaced, wondering if he’d gotten fleas from sleeping with his dog.

  “What are ye looking at!” he snapped, when he turned and found her staring.

  She cringed at the harsh tone of his voice and averted her gaze, determined not to banter words with the surly giant any longer. Damnation, though she’d never admit it to him, she’d certainly run in fear of him too!

  Shielded by his towering form, she continued to tear snippets from her shift and then drop them at intervals, and though she cursed Broc’s arrogant presence beside her, he didn’t break his word.

  He didn’t give her away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Of all Page wasn’t certain which was worse to bear: the presence of the irksome giant beside her
... the gruesome foot waving at her from under the blanket on the horse before her... or the sight of the MacKinnon riding at their lead.

  Like some heathen idol he sat his mount, tall and magnificent in the saddle, his dark, wavy hair blowing softly at his back. In the afternoon sunlight, the streaks of silver at his temples seemed almost a pagan ornament, for the metallic gleam of his braid was almost startling against his youthful features. The sinewy strength evident in the wide set of his shoulders and solid breadth of his back only served to emphasize the fact that he might have killed her any time he’d wished, with no more than a swat of his hand—that same hand that caressed his son so tenderly now.

  In truth, he’d not even spoken to her harshly. He’d been naught but gentle, and it mightily confused her.

  In fact, he might have done anything he’d wished to her, and no one could have stopped him. Scarce a handful of men present were even as big as the MacKinnon, and only two were taller—the man at her side being one of them. She cast him an irritated glance. And yet she knew Broc would no more prevail against his laird than he would consider rising up against him in the first place.

  None of them would.

  Her gaze swept the lot of them. It was evident that each and every man wholly embraced the MacKinnon as their leader. Jesu, but it was almost comical the way they allowed him the lead of their party. Like dogs, they followed wherever he went—and if one man chanced to pass him by, Page was struck with wonder that that man would unconsciously look to his laird, and then slow his gait to allow Iain to pass once more.

  The MacKinnon, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to this ritual. He forged onward, his attention fixed only upon his son, who sat before him in the saddle.

  There was an undeniable air of authority about him, one he wore with unaffected ease, and an air of total acceptance from his men.

  And yet, he obviously did not oppress them, else the giant beside her would never be aiding her as he was. ’Twas evident by the way that he looked at his laird that he did so only because he meant to do him a favor. He seemed to think he was protecting the MacKinnon—and did so rather vehemently, Page thought.

  Well, who would protect her from the MacKinnon? she wondered irritably.

  Aye, she’d already determined that he’d not harm her, but what of her heart, and her soul, and her body?

  She was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t comprehend, though she knew it was a dangerous longing. And still she couldn’t stop herself from yearning.

  For what? The sweet promise of his whisper? The gentle touch of his hand?

  His love? she thought with self-disdain.

  Jesu, but it was growing more and more difficult to keep her eyes from wandering in his direction.

  Particularly so given his meager state of dress.

  The short tunic and wayward breacan exposed a sinfully bare thigh as he rode. And he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the wind every so oft lifted his blanket for a tantalizing glimpse of the man beneath. Jesu, but she tried not to look—she truly did—but she could scarce keep herself from it, for the beauty of the man seduced her, stole her breath away.

  Her heart quickened, for she was once again accosted by the image of them lying together upon his breacan... the way he’d taken her hand...

  She swallowed at the memory, her throat feeling suddenly too raw.

  Lord! She was a woman, was she not? No child. Why did every need have to be emotional? Mayhap it wasn’t love that drew her, after all. Why couldn’t it simply be that she wanted the things she knew instinctively he could give her as a man? Though she was innocent in the ways of men and women, she was no half-wit, by God! She was wholly aware of the way he made her feel... bold and breathless... achy.

  It was a physical thing, for certain.

  Aye, she wanted his arms about her. What was so wrong with that? Certainly she wasn’t the only woman who had been so inclined? Why was it that a man could want these things but a woman could not?

  Why was it that a woman’s needs were to be masked by such a thing called love? Love was certainly overrated, she thought, and she wasn’t even sure it existed.

  So then, if there was no such thing as love... wasn’t the mask a lie? Wasn’t it truly a weakness to fall back upon this myth? Wasn’t it better to be honest with oneself and admit the truth of the matter—that it was lust, instead?

  Aye, she truly thought so... and though the MacKinnon might be her enemy, she was drawn to him in the way a man attracts a woman. Nothing more. Lust was uncontrollable, was it not? It was a primal thing that lured and seized one’s senses. And every waking thought. That’s what men claimed, at any rate. She’d heard more than a few faithless husbands tell their wives just so.

  She stole a glance at the MacKinnon, just as the wind whipped, lifting his breacan and tunic. Her breath caught, and her body betrayed her then. Her heart began to thump against her ribs.

  Like warm spiced mead, heat slid through her, burning her flesh, and making her mouth go drier than sun-dried leather. The movement of the horse between her thighs quickened her breath, even as the sight of the MacKinnon awakened her body to life. Her hand fluttered to her throat, and then slid down the front of her gown; she paused at her breast, marveling at the sensations that stirred there.

  Sweet Jesu. He was the only man who had ever made her feel...

  She closed her eyes and lifted her hand, caressing the bared flesh at her throat, imagining his hand there instead...

  He was the first man ever to have awakened her body to life... the first whose touch she’d ever craved... the first man who’d ever wanted her...

  Aye, and she wanted him to want her, but it wasn’t his love she yearned for, she told herself. She was no dog to go begging for affection, but a woman whose body was not made of cold steel.

  She wanted him, she admitted wantonly.

  And she wanted him to want her.

  Her enemy.

  Her eyes flew open, and her breath caught as she looked about anxiously, praying no one had spied her at her wicked musings. Her cheeks flamed with mortification.

  Her gaze settled upon the man who had so easily and without trying invaded her every thought.

  He was wholly unaware of her.

  He rode with his son, oblivious to the reactions of Page’s treacherous body. Her brows drew together, and she nibbled the inside of her lip. What a fool she was!

  He didn’t want her, she berated herself.

  Whatever had possessed her to believe him when he’d said he did? The man riding before her could have any woman he so chose. And Page was no man’s choice.

  Not even her own father’s.

  Which brought her to wonder .. . whatever had Broc meant when he’d said that the MacKinnon felt compelled to save her from her da? She stole a glance at the behemoth riding beside her. But he willna be rid o’ ye so easily, I swear by the stone, she heard him say to her again, and she blinked. Her father? Her father wouldn’t be rid of her so easily? A feeling of unease sidled through her.

  The one thing she knew for certain was that somehow, she needed to find a way back home.

  She was desperate to find a way to escape.

  Iain placed a hand to his son’s shoulder, squeezing gently, with a desperation that belied the reassurance of his touch. “Try to remember, Malcom...”

  For a long instant there was silence between them, as Malcom tried desperately to do as was bade of him. “I canna, da,” he answered unhappily. “I only remember wakin’ up.” His son peered up at him, and his little brows were drawn together in a frown.

  “Wi’ David?”

  His answer was a soft child’s murmur.

  “Weel, then, son, dinna fash yourself. ‘Tis no failing o’ yours that you canna remember.”

  Malcom nodded, and Iain asked, “They didna hurt you, did they?”

  Malcom shook his head.

  “Guid,” Iain said. If he discovered elsewise, he’d have to turn his mount about and strangle th
e first Sassenach neck he encountered. “Tell me one more time, son... and I willna trouble you with it for a while more... Tell me exactly what you remember about that night.”

  “I only remember eating... and then I was sleepy,” he said.

  “Who was there eating wi’ ye, d’ ye remember that much?”

  “Ummm... auld Angus?”

  He sounded so uncertain that Iain had to wonder how much of the sleeping drog they’d given him. Christ, but ’twas a wonder they’d not killed him! His anger mounted once again, though no one could have suspected by the ease of his posture. Only the muscle ticking at his jaw, as he listened to his son, gave testament to his incredible fury. “I know aboot Angus... Anyone else, son?”

  “Maggie,” Malcom declared. “And Glenna— and Broc.”

  Most every man had been with Iain, save for Angus and Broc, he reflected. And Lagan.

  But Lagan had been brawling again with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. His cousin had long ago taken a liking to the dun- haired lass, but MacLean had sworn he’d never trust another of his lasses to MacKinnon men. Iain couldn’t say as he blamed the man.

  Mairi’s death had not been by his own hands, but the fault lay still upon his shoulders. He should have known. He should have stopped her somehow. And he might have, had he not been holding their son.

  Malcom. He’d long grieved for Malcom, for she’d abandoned him as surely as though she’d slapped his face and then walked away. Christ, but he loathed her for that.

  And for leaving him with her blood upon his hands.

  As far as MacLean was concerned, Iain was her murderer, for he had been the last to see her alive and he had been the one at the window, while his daughter’s body lay sprawled upon the jagged rocks below. Any chance for peace had been crushed along with her that day.