She wanted to weep, but didn’t dare, lest he discover her awake.
The trail they were following veered upward, a steeper incline than any they’d traveled as yet, and Page sighed contentedly as she was forced closer to the man who would ever after haunt her dreams.
As far as she could tell, it was late afternoon.
Through the haze of her lashes, she could spy ribbons of rose-red stretching across a faded blue sky. The sun bathed the heathered hills in a buttery light, like a gentle mother kissing all it touched before snuffing its light.
When the path turned steeper yet, Page dared to cling to her dubious savior, taking comfort in his strength to keep her safe. Her hand at his back took great pleasure in exploring the sinew of his flesh, the broadness of his back, her pretense of slumber affording her a boldness she would never have dared elsewise.
He was a marvelous exemplar of a man, every part of him well formed. She sighed at the memory of him kneeling unclothed before her, magnificent and primeval.
The way he’d gazed at her; no one had ever looked at her just so.
His eyes... they were the sort to make a woman weak when they fell upon her in full measure. Something flittered down deep within her belly with scarce the memory of his smoldering gaze. Arrogantly confident, they appraised like one who knew what he wanted and knew instinctively how to get it. They probed for secrets, used them to ravage the heart... and the body.
She shivered at the thought.
Of his hands upon her...
And his lips... lips that promised unspeakable things... promises kept with such great relish. Jesu, but he’d taken immense pleasure, judging by the mischievous turn of his lips, in all that he’d done to her. He’d made love to her again with that exquisite mouth, taking more pleasure in the endeavor than it seemed possible a man could take in such a thing.
Unable to contain it, she gave a sleepy little moan, and turned to bury her face against his chest. But it was a mistake, she realized at once, for she breathed in the scent of him, and was wholly undone by it.
Jesu, but she wanted to stay this way forever.
But forever was an impossibility, and the moment would be over too soon. Hot tears slipped from her lashes, though she told herself they were absurd.
How could she love a man she scarcely knew? Jesu, but she thought she did.
How could she have given herself so freely? Loved him back without compunction?
Not love. Anything but love.
Lust, she tried to convince herself. It was lust, simple and true.
So, then, why did the sting of tears persist?
And why did her heart feel suddenly so heavy as though it were weighted with stone?
Stiffening at the delicate brush of fingers across his back, Iain peered down, trying to determine whether Page slept or nay.
It was a lover’s caress. A sleepy lover’s caress that stirred his senses and started his pulse to pounding. He thought she might have awakened, but she didn’t open her eyes.
No matter, he took pleasure in holding her so. She was so light, delicate within his arms, fragile even—despite the invulnerable facade she put forth. She appeared at first sight to be as sturdy as the stone walls her father had erected about his keep, but remove a single brick, and her walls came toppling down.
She’d been exhausted after he’d loved her so thoroughly, so much so that she’d fallen asleep within his arms as he’d stroked the damp wisps of hair back from her face. Och, but this he relished more than he should... the trust she’d placed in him to so easily fall asleep within his embrace.
It was a simple show of faith, one that endeared her to him more readily than even her enduring nature. It was something he’d never had from Mairi. Trust. Something he would never have dared even hope for.
Instead, his wife had withdrawn from their bed to that infernal window, where she’d stood staring into the night. He’d listened to her weeping, and watched her quiet revulsion for the act of love they had committed, and his heart had wept pure blood.
Once she’d conceived, he’d never touched her again—nor had she desired him to by the way she so studiously avoided him. She’d carried his bairn without sharing a single whisper of him, had mourned every moment she’d nurtured his babe within her womb, as though it were an abomination of her being.
His son had been magnificent.
Aye, Malcom was everything he’d ever hoped for in a son; free of spirit and unafraid to love. It was something Iain envied of him.
Page... he smiled at the memory of her halting acceptance of the name he’d chosen for her: Suisan. It gave him pleasure to think of her so. Her response to him... her openhearted acceptance of his loving—not mere acquiescence—was like a balm for his soul.
God, but it made him dream again, opened doors in his heart he’d never known were closed.
She wiggled away from him slightly and he reached out, never touching, but tracing the out line of her belly with his palm, imagining his babe growing there. It gave him a fierce pleasure. He’d withdrawn each time before planting his seed within her body, but couldn’t keep himself from imagining her belly swollen with his bairn.
He wanted to do it again... so badly—love her, aye, but more than that, to give her his child. He’d thought his chances were all gone. All the things he’d wanted to do with Mairi and never could... place his hand to her belly, feel the first stirring of life from their bairn... touch his cheek and lips to her body where it nurtured their babe... lay her naked upon his bed each morn and every night to study the glorious changes in her body.
All those things he suddenly found himself wanting with the woman lying so serenely within his arms.
It made his heart full with joy and alight with anticipation merely to think of it.
Damn, but he had to chuckle at the look auld Angus had given him when he’d come bearing her back to camp—a mixture of outright indignation and reluctant approval. The old man had been after him long enough to get himself a woman, but Iain thought he might have favored one a little less vexing. He chuckled softly, for in truth, he might have preferred one a little less troublesome, as well.
The little termagant.
Och, but the truth was, he loved her spirit, including her tempers, for they were evidence that her soul burned with life. No quiet, seething, mourning woman was she. Nay, she was passion incarnate, feeling everything, be it anger, or lust—and love?—to its fullest degree.
His cousin, on the contrary, had been wholly disapproving, if the look upon his face was any indication. Too bad. Iain had long since abided by his own decisions, and it was a lifetime too late for Lagan to insinuate himself upon them. His cousin would simply have to learn to live with the Sassenach spitfire in their midst—as would the rest of them, for he intended to keep her.
As for himself, becoming used to her presence was an undertaking he suspected he was going to wholly enjoy.
Thoughts of his cousin brought a pensive wrinkle to his brow.
Lagan had been acting strangely of late, brooding incessantly. Ever since his quarrel with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. Mayhap he should talk to the MacLean himself—much as he was loath to—for Lagan’s sake. Mayhap there was something he could do, as yet?
And mayhap not; auld MacLean loathed the hell out of him, for certain. His mediation was more like to drive the wedge more firmly betwixt them.
“Da! Da!”
Malcom’s shrill cry of alarm pierced his thoughts like the blow of an ax. He pivoted about, heart lurching, to find his son unharmed, but pointing wildly.
“Ranald’s gettin’ away!” Malcom shouted. “Ranald’s gettin’ away!”
Iain’s brows drew together at his son’s hue and cry. How the hell could Ranald possibly do that, dead as the bastard was. Following the direction of Malcom’s pointed finger, he caught sight of the crisis that held his son’s concern. Ranald’s body had somehow snapped free of its bindings—not the bindings, he realized, upon cl
oser inspection. The harness had snapped, and while Ranald was tethered still, the saddle was slipping free. Even as he fully absorbed Ranald’s predicament, Ranald broke free suddenly, and began tumbling down the steep hillside, losing the saddle after the first violent turns. The tartan about him unraveled with every subsequent roll.
“Christ!” he muttered. Damn, but Ranald must have earned himself one hell of a curse during his lifetime. Iain doubted a dead man had ever had such bloody misfortune!
A few of his men vaulted from their saddles at once, and for the second time in the space of a day, went in pursuit of Ranald’s errant body.
Iain cursed roundly as he peered down, frowning, into Page’s blinking eyes.
She was awake, staring up at him. “I didn’t do it!” she swore at once.
Chapter Twenty-One
There wasn’t a grimace-free expression amongst the faces staring down at Ranald’s body. Between the wolves, the plunge into the lake, his wet blankets, and the roll down the hill, Ranald was, without a doubt, the worse for his wear.
Page stood silently amongst the gathered, her face screwing in revulsion at the sight of the body lying so twisted before them. Her guilt was tremendous, for she knew she shared some measure of blame for the poor man’s misfortune. Lord, but her father had always said she could tax a dead man’s soul, and it seemed he was certainly correct, for this particular dead man was about as taxed as a soul could be.
Even so, she simply wasn’t about to take all the blame! She certain hadn’t killed the man to begin with— neither had she set the wolves against him. She had, however, dumped him into the lake during her escape. Of a certainty his wet blankets hadn’t done his appearance any service. God’s truth, he’d not been the most comely fellow she’d ever set eyes upon to begin with, but now he was fairly grotesque. She wrinkled her nose and turned away. Jesu, but it was a good thing she had such a strong fortitude.
“I’ll no’ be puttin’ him on my horse!” Dougal interjected suddenly, his tone fraught with disgust, his expression revealing as much.
“Neither mine!” announced Kerwyn. “Turns my belly sour just to look at him.”
Broc’s too, apparently, Page noted, a little bemused by the behemoth’s reaction to the dead man. In truth, he hadn’t even come nigh to the body, and still he knelt away from the gathered crowd, retching and making the most ungodly sounds Page had ever heard in her entire Life.
Although she was loath to intrude, she wandered near to him. “Might I help?”
Broc seemed momentarily bewildered by her question. “Help me spill my guts?” he answered, peering up at her, frowning a little. “Why should ye wish to help me, wench?”
Page shrugged and gave him a slight smile. “Because you’re not so very rotten as you think.”
“Aye?” he asked. “Says who?”
Page’s smile deepened despite his glare. “Says me,” she replied pertly. “My thanks to you for trying to help me this mom... Broc.”
“Sassenach wench!” he replied without heat.
“Behemoth,” she answered, grinning.
He ceded the tiniest hint of a smile.
“Aye, well... for all the guid it did me,” he quipped. “Ye dinna get verra far, now did ye.”
“Nay,” Page replied, her cheeks heating at the memory of her capture at his laird’s hands. She felt in that instant as though every guilty pleasure was written there upon her face. What must he think of her? What must they all think of her? Jesu, but she really didn’t wish to know. “I-I did not,” she lamented, and then ventured once more, “May I... that is to say... are you feeling better now?” Somehow, it suddenly seemed important to her that they not think of her unkindly—not even the surly behemoth kneeling so pitifully before her.
His “brows collided into a fierce frown. Dinna fash yourself’ o’er me,” he snapped. His gaze skidded away. “Go away now, and leave me be.”
Moody wretch. Page glowered at him, but didn’t persist. She moved again toward the gathered crowd, thinking that ’twas no wonder these Scots were forever at war. Churlish beasts.
“Christ, but he stinks to Heaven!” Kermichil swore, grimacing. But he didn’t look away, Page noted. He stared, seeming fascinated by the body before them. It seemed morbid curiosity kept them all rooted to the spot.
“He doesna e’en look like Ranald anymore,” Lagan lamented, shaking his head in a gesture of regret. And yet his eyes revealed nothing of the sentiment as they shifted to Page. Only the depths of his anger lingered then. He not only blamed her, she realized, he loathed her.
She didn’t know why, but he disturbed her somehow—for more reason than that he simply didn’t like her. It was something more. She shuddered, unnerved by the look he gave her, and turned away.
“Poor damned Ranald,” Angus answered gruffly.
“Damn but he’s no’ riding wi’ me either,” Kermichil interjected.
“Poor bastard,” someone chimed in.
“Aye, poor damned bastard,” came the echo.
There was a long interval of weighted silence as they all stared, nodding in agreement.
“Och, Iain... mayhap we should leave him,” suggested Dougal.
Iain’s brows drew together. “Nay,” he declared at once. “He’s deservin’ of a proper funeral! We’ll no’ be leaving him here to rot!”
“Weel...” Dougal put forth, a little fretfully. He scratched his head. “I’ll no’ be ridin’ wi’ him, that’s for certain.” He peered nervously up at Iain. “I dinna think I could stand it!” he added quickly.
Page didn’t particularly blame him, as she didn’t think she could either. Her brows knit. Jesu, but someone would have to take him. Iain intended to ride with his son, and he’d given her Ranald’s mount to use for herself—against his men’s wishes, it seemed. Nor did they appear overly appreciative of the fact that he’d given her his saddle and harness after Ranald’s had been rendered unusable in the fall. They said nothing over the fact, but she knew by the looks upon their faces that the decision curdled in their bellies.
“Nor I,” Kerwyn joined them in saying.
“Nor me,” Kerr said, grimacing.
“Nor Broc either!” Angus announced with no small measure of disgust. “Och, but look at him over there, pukin’ his guts like a wee bairn! For a muckle lad he has the weakest damned belly this auld man’s e’er seen!”
“Ranald’s coming wi’ us,” Iain maintained.
Lagan remained silent, staring at Page.
“Och, Iain!” Dougal began, and stamped his foot like a petulant child. “I dinna want to ride wi’ him!”
“What would ye have me tell his minnie, Dou-gal?” Iain asked. His jaw tautened in anger—the muscle working there the only evidence of his carefully controlled temper. “Mayhap ye would like t’ have the pleasure of explaining how we forsook her only son to the wolves and the bluidy vultures?”
Dougal’s face reddened. He shook his head, hanging it shamefully, and stared disconcertedly at the foot he stabbed into a trampled patch of muir grass.
Page could see in their faces the aversion they felt over riding with a dead man—she couldn’t blame them. It was a loathsome prospect, one she wasn’t particularly keen upon herself, but she certainly didn’t wish to see Iain angry. Years of trying to avoid her father’s tempers made her yearn to speak up. One look at the putrid body kept her tongue stilled.
“Och, but we’re a miserable lot!” Angus began, the tone of his voice making Page cringe where she stood. “A miserable lot o’—”
“I-I’ll ride with him!” Page suddenly blurted, startling even herself with the offer. She regretted the outburst at once.
Every gaze snapped up and trained upon her.
Jesu, but his state was partially her responsibility, she reasoned frantically. And mayhap she would please Iain by keeping the peace for him? Perchance even gain his men’s acceptance by saving them Ranald’s undesired company?
Though these were not her people, she
rationalized, she would need endure their company only until her father showed himself to claim her. And he would come, she told herself. He had to come.
Mayhap he was rallying his men even now?
“I... I... do not... mind,” she lied with difficulty. Jesu, but the disgust was surely there to be seen upon her face!
Like that first night, they all stared at her, mouths slightly agape, saying nothing, only this time Page refrained from adding her acid wit. As she watched, their faces reddened, some of their expressions grew incredulous, some doubtful, and she backed away a pace. She cast a dubious glance at Iain and found him scowling fiercely. Lord, what had she done? Committed some cardinal Scots sin with her offer?
She met his eyes, searching.
Iain stared, blinking, scare able to believe his ears.
He’d been about to speak up and resign himself to carry Ranald when she’d beaten him to it. That she would be willing to subject herself to such an unpleasant task for her own kindred’s sake would have stunned him well enough already—particularly as his own men, Ranald’s friends, were all loath to bear up to the responsibility. Christ, but that she would be willing for Ranald’s sake was inconceivable.
Judging by the expression upon his men’s faces, they were every one as stupefied by her unanticipated offer as was he. If he weren’t so bloody provoked by the lot of them, he would have laughed at the response she’d managed to elicit from them. Damn, but she was priceless. In that instant he admired her immensely—wanted to draw her into his arms and kiss her soundly upon those delightful lips of hers.
And that’s not all he wanted to do to her. God, but she was endearing standing there, looking so beautifully anxious, her wide brown eyes so wary and yet forewarning. Her dress had, without doubt, seen better days, and yet it didn’t matter. Upon her it might have been made of spun gold. She filled it exquisitely, her breasts high and firm. He remembered the supple feel of them within his hands, beneath his fingertips, and felt himself harden, his blood pulse, at the mere thought. Worn as it was, the dress clung to her every curve like gossamer webs to bare flesh. Her hair. He suddenly wished he’d taken the time to unplait it and thread his fingers through the sunlit length. There would be another time, he decided. Damn, but he suddenly felt grateful to her bastard father. Aye, for she was a gift, not a burden. He gave her a wink, and her tension visibly eased.
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