Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  In truth, looking at it through MacLean’s eyes, it didn’t matter much whether Iain had pushed her from that window, or whether he’d merely driven her to it. He was responsible either way, and were Iain in MacLean’s shoes, he didn’t think he’d give another daughter to settle any goddamned feud.

  God help him, even to his own mind, he was guilty. Somehow, he’d failed Mairi. He didn’t know what it was he’d done to drive her out from that tower window, but he must have done something.

  Something.

  He hadn’t loved her precisely. She’d been much too reserved with her own affections for that, but he’d cared for her nonetheless. And he’d wanted to love her. There just hadn’t been enough time.

  What had he done to drive her from that window?

  In the beginning, the need to know had driven him near mad. It tormented him still. He must have done something, but he couldn’t recall ever treating her unkindly. God’s truth, but he’d set out to woo her, though he’d failed miserably. To this day, the image of her standing before the tower window haunted him—hair mussed, eyes wild, and that slight smile that made the hairs upon his nape stand on end even after all this time.

  He shuddered, willing away the graven image, and asked his son, “And you dinna recall going to bed? Or waking in the night?”

  “Nay, da,” Malcom answered dejectedly. “I dinna recall.”

  Iain ruffled his hair. “Dinna worry yourself aboot it then.”

  From what Maggie had told him, Malcom had fallen asleep at table, over his haggis—not surprising when the boy would and did do anything to keep from having to eat his pudding. Maggie had tried to wake him, and upon finding him truly asleep, had carried him to his bed. Feeling drowsed herself, she’d never made it out of the room. She’d dozed while recounting him a story, and had slept sitting beside the bed, her head pillowed within her arms. It was only in the morn, after she’d passed auld Angus still asleep at table, slumped over his plate, that she’d begun to suspect. Glenna had fallen asleep in the kitchen, Malcom was nowhere to be found, and no one had witnessed a bloody thing. What Iain wanted to know... almost as much as who... was how in God’s name they’d managed to drog the entire household with no one the wiser.

  He damned well intended to find out.

  It occurred to him suddenly that he couldn’t call Page Maggie. Och, but two Maggies in one household would be one too many. He’d have to think of another name. He was certain she couldn’t be enamored of Page, but how to broach the issue without offending her... Or mayhap he wouldn’t broach it at all, he’d simply call her by whatever new name he decided upon. If she objected, he would simply have to set about finding her another, until he found one she preferred.

  When had he made the decision to keep her? he wondered.

  Christ only knew, he didn’t need the battle of wills—nor was she a beast of burden for her fate to be decided upon so easily, and yet those were precisely the reasons he wasn’t about to let her go. Somehow, it had become crucial to him that she not be hurt any more than he was certain she was hurt already. And if she discovered her father didn’t want her...

  He frowned. She still harbored hope that he would come after her—bastard! He spied it upon her face, and in the way she turned so often to peer behind. As though looking for him. Iain almost wished the whoreson would pursue them, so she wouldn’t be disappointed.

  So that he might cast his blade into the bastard’s stone-cold heart.

  He’d thought to have the opportunity when they’d found Ranald’s body, but Iain had seen no sign of FitzSimon’s party since then. In truth, he hadn’t even then, save for the evidence of Ranald’s body.

  If not FitzSimon, who had gotten to Ranald?

  Who would have motive?

  The possibility that one of his own might be responsible made his gut turn. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. Something lay at the edge of his thoughts, something, though he could not capture it. Every time he came close, he heard the ghost of the lass’ song in his ears.

  Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee lammie...

  Christ, where had he heard the lay before? Whose voice was it that haunted him?

  The memory escaped him.

  On the other hand, he was intensely aware of the woman riding at his flank—of every glance she gave him, every move she made. And aye, he was aware, too, that she was dropping the scraps. He’d spied her at her mischief just about the time Broc had. Iain hadn’t confronted her because the matter he’d been discussing with Malcom had been more important. And just in case she managed an escape, he fully intended to go back after them tonight—gather just enough to thwart her. Her scheme wasn’t going to help her any at all.

  And he intended to discover what Broc was up to. The lad was the last person Iain might have suspected of recreancy, but the evidence was there before him. Iain had thought at first that Broc meant to confront her, but even after their heated discourse, the lass continued to drop her scraps. Whatever his reason, Broc was aiding her. That much was plain to see.

  Conspicuous as well were her continued glances toward him. The yearning reflected within the depths of those overwise brown eyes squeezed at his heart. It wasn’t Iain she coveted, he thought, but the affection between Malcom and himself. He sensed that even as he sensed the heat of her gaze upon him, and God, he felt the overwhelming desire to take her into his arms, soothe away her pain.

  Emotions warred within him.

  Bloody hell, but if she didn’t cease to look at him with such obvious longing, he wasn’t certain he was going to be able to restrain himself. He was only a man, after all, a man too long without a woman. It was becoming more and more difficult to recall himself to the fact that it wasn’t him she desired, but something else he couldn’t give her. He didn’t have it in him to give. Once he had thought to open his heart; now it was sealed tighter than a tomb.

  And still she drew him.

  She was lovely, aye, but there was something more.

  It’d been a long time since he’d felt so utterly distracted by a woman. Not even Mairi had affected him so. His wife had been beautiful, but her heart had been poisoned against him. Loving her had been a duty. Wanting her had been unthinkable.

  But he wanted FitzSimon’s daughter.

  His warning to her last night had not solely been to distract her, and the effect her glances were having upon him was painfully physical. His body craved the things she silently asked of him. Christ, but he might have been blind and still sensed her presence.

  Like a man thirsting for water, and maddened by its scent upon the air.

  He was on edge.

  He turned to find her staring, and his blood began to simmer. Brazen thing that she was, she held his gaze, her dark eyes smoldering, reflecting a carnal knowledge he knew she couldn’t possibly possess... or could she?

  The possibility aroused him, evoked new images. His heartbeat quickened.

  Or was it his own reflection he saw mirrored there in the fathomless depths of her eyes, his own dark yearnings?

  Suddenly her eyes sparkled with challenge, or mayhap defiance, and she snapped the reins, urging Ranald’s mount toward him. Iain turned away, recognizing the battle to come, knowing it would be near impossible to watch her approach, anticipate her, and still keep his reason when she confronted him.

  God’s truth, but for someone who was supposed to be a hapless hostage, she acted more like a haughty queen, snapping rebukes to Broc, and sending daggers with those lovely eyes. Mostly in his direction and Iain could scarce keep from grinning at the thought.

  And then he sighed, for those beautiful, wide brown eyes of hers were too expressive for her own good.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was the look upon his face that provoked Page—that arrogant twist of his lips that made her feel as though he mocked her somehow.

  What could he possibly know? The cur! Certainly not that she was dropping the scraps of cloth—else he would have put an end to it long ere
now.

  And lest he be a sorcerer, nor could he possibly have divined her wicked thoughts. They were hers, and hers alone to contend with, and if her cheeks were high with color, ’twas simply because the wretched man had driven them forward, ever forward, never stopping, never resting. She was weary. And she had to do the necessary, besides—since after noon.

  Page hadn’t complained even the first time, determined as she was not to speak to a one of them. She’d long determined that Broc was a flea-bitten moron! Scarce had he spoken a kind word to her all day, and his only saving grace was that he fiercely loved his little Merry Bells. Jesu, but she’d be willing to wager he even slept with the beast—wouldn’t doubt that it was where he’d managed to catch his fleas. And she was nearly certain he had them now.

  Just to be certain she didn’t fall heir to a few, she edged her mount away from him, and tried not to be overly amused when he bragged to Kerwyn about the animal’s keen intellect. Kerwyn, for his part, ignored her. He listened to Broc’s boasts with half an ear, and an enduring smile that suggested he’d heard the tales before.

  Then there was Angus. Angus was an addle-pated old fool, staring at her as he did so oft—as though she were some confounded riddle to be deciphered. God’s truth, but he was unsettling her—nigh as much as his laird. Her only comfort lay in the fact that he obviously thought the MacKinnon all the more daft, for the looks he cast in Iain’s direction were decidedly bemused.

  And the MacKinnon... She’d already determined how he made her feel.

  Confused.

  Hopeful.

  Titillated.

  And she’d be hanged before she’d let him know it!

  Her patience at an end, she snapped the reins, spurring poor Ranald’s mount toward the lead rider. She headed straight toward the MacKinnon, cursing the circle of mounts that enclosed her. Be damned if they were going to keep her from speaking her mind! Determined to have words with her tormentor, she forced her way through the band of Scotsmen, ignoring the scores of curses and warnings that flew at her back.

  No one stopped her, and in less than a moment, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had managed to plague most every second of every waking thought.

  Iain MacKinnon.

  Even his name made gooseflesh erupt.

  “I demand you stop this instant!” she insisted of him.

  He lifted a brow, and his sensuous lips curved with humor at her expense. “D’ you now?” he asked her. “And what is it precisely you wish me to stop, lass?” When Malcom, too, peered up at her, a little anxiously, he placed a hand gently to his son’s shoulder, reassuring him. Page tried not to note the simple fatherly gesture, and chose instead to focus upon her anger.

  She chafed over his arrogant tone of voice. “I mean halt!” she said, indicating the cavalcade with an impatient wave of her hand. She eyed his son prudently, imagining the boy must think her a madwoman. She could scarce blame him; certainly she felt like one. God’s truth, she’d felt discomposed from the instant he had first set eyes upon her. Befogged. And then her gaze returned to the MacKinnon’s glittering amber eyes, and she suddenly couldn’t think at all.

  Her heart leapt at what she saw in the depths of his gaze.

  Desire.

  No mistaking it.

  Like golden flames flickering at her, his eyes sent molten heat through her body, making her skin prickle in a way that was both agonizing and breathtakingly sweet.

  Those eyes mesmerized her, invited her to bask in their warmth.

  An unwanted shiver coursed down her spine.

  She tried to ignore it, and failed miserably. The assault upon her senses was too keen. Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and she stared, unable to look away.

  “What is it ye would be wantin’ me to stop, lass?” he asked, his voice husky and low.

  Her heart did a little somersault as she met his gaze.

  He blinked, waiting, and Page swallowed. “I need to rest,” she clarified, slightly dazed, and more than a little breathless. The thickened sound of her voice embarrassed her.

  He seemed to realize the effect his gaze had upon her, for his lips curved a fraction more, and she stammered, “W-we’ve b-been...”

  He smiled suddenly, a devastating smile, and the breath left her completely. Her stomach floated, and her heart took wing, like the wind before a storm, flying into her throat—like dry leaves swept helplessly upward by a merciless gust only to choke within the gnarled limbs of trees.

  “R-riding all the morn,” she finished lamely, swallowing.

  He said nothing, merely deepened the smile, and Page felt suddenly like a wretched waif whose tongue had been cut out for merely stealing a taste of forbidden fruit. She felt suddenly so meritless beneath his scrutiny. Jesu, but he was beautiful... everything about him. Everything. From the curve of his lips, to the contours of his face, the long lean length of his body, and the muscled strength in his mostly bare limbs.

  And she... she was so... plain.

  He couldn’t possibly desire her for anything but revenge.

  Truly, he must have been toying with her, playing some cruel, cruel game, for a man such as he could never want a woman such as she.

  Not even for the space of a heartbeat.

  His kindness only served to confuse her. It made her heart wrench painfully.

  The lilting brogue and the soft tone of his voice tormented her, for it made her wish for things that could never be... a lover’s embrace... a whisper at her ear... his breath upon her lips.

  All the things she’d heard whispered about in the dark corners of her father’s home.

  “What is it, lass?” he asked softly.

  Page turned abruptly away, unsettled by the wicked turn of her thoughts. She felt the flush creep into her face. “W-we’ve ridden all day without the least chance to rest,” she complained. “Nor to—” She gazed at him quickly, and then her glance skittered away. She was both annoyed and disconcerted that she should have to broach such a tender subject—hurt and disappointed, though she had no right to be, that he would play such games with her tattered soul. “You know...”

  How could he? she asked herself.

  He couldn’t know that the shreds of her heart were welded so delicately together. That a single whisper from his beautiful lips could melt her piteous heart like the first tender snowflakes upon the sun-blistered ground.

  Nay, as far as the MacKinnon was concerned, she was her father’s beloved daughter. And she... She was his vengeance against the man who had stolen his precious son.

  She started suddenly when he bellowed a command to his men in his Scots tongue. At the fierce sound, Page startled where she sat. Anger was her first thought—he was angry with her— and she shuddered.

  What had she done?

  God’s truth, she couldn’t even remember what she’d said!

  His men at once changed course, away from the valley they’d been following, up the rise of a gently rolling hill. The MacKinnon spoke to his son briefly, the boy nodded, and he then bellowed for his cousin Lagan to come and attend him. He handed his son to Lagan, sparing a quick glance toward Page, and then snapped an indecipherable command to his cousin. He reached the distance between them suddenly, seizing her reins, and then veered onto a path that led into a sparse woodland, away from the party.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To gi’ ye the privacy ye need,” Iain snapped, angry with himself, not so much for neglecting her needs, but for what he spied in the depths of her eyes. His men didn’t stand on ceremony where bodily demands were concerned, they simply did what they must. He’d forgotten to consider hers, and was irritated by the fact, but what angered him most was that goddamned wounded look she’d given him.

  Damn her father for an uncaring ass!

  Though her bearing was proud and unbroken still, her eyes revealed everything. He’d recognized the attraction at once, in the impassioned depths of her dewy-eyed gaze, and his body had reacted tenfold. As if h
e were a beardless youth, the sweat from his palms had begun to salt the leather reins he held. And God, his arousal had been immediate and painful. He’d sat there, listening to her ramblings, and had been hard put to keep his thoughts on any single word she spoke.

  Even the sound of her voice seduced him.

  Lulled him.

  Husky and breathless.

  The way she might sound after being thoroughly loved.

  The thought set his heart to pounding.

  And then just as quickly as her passion had unfolded, it had vanished, and was replaced with that same wounded gaze he now recognized from the first time he’d set eyes upon her—the look of a woman scorned.

  Christ, man, didn’t she realize what her presence did to him? Had he not made it clear enough last eve? He had half a notion to find the most secluded spot here in these woods, yank her down from that mount, and show her just how much he was affected by her.

  Bloody hell, how could she not know?

  “What of the rest?” she asked a little anxiously. “Where do they go?”

  Iain’s jaw remained taut, though he tried to rid himself of his anger. For her sake. “To find a place to settle for the eve.”

  “Without us?” She sounded distressed, and a little breathless, and Iain turned to appraise her. She was staring again, those beautiful soulful eyes wide and fraught with anxiety. She nibbled at her lip nervously, and he lapped at his own gone dry.

  Afeared to be alone with him, was she?

  Somehow, the thought both tormented and pleased him immensely.

  “We’ll catch them,” he assured, turning away. “As soon as we’re through.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “Just beyond the rise. ‘Tis a secluded enough place, we’ll not be troubled.”

  “I see,” she said, but didn’t sound so very reassured.

  “There lies a loch, as well,” Iain added. “I thought perchance ye would wish to refresh yourself.” He peered over at her, watching her expression as she rode, gauging her mood, and then added, “Suisan.” Christ forgive him, he hadn’t meant to test the name so soon, hadn’t even thought about what to call her, but the name came to his lips even so, and he thought it suited her perfectly.