Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Weel,” Angus began, his face screwing thoughtfully.

  “I’ll take him, da!” Malcom offered eagerly, tugging at his father’s breacan. “I’m a big boy. I can take him! Aren’t I, Angus?” He turned to look at the surly old Scot.

  Angus’s brows lifted. “Ye’re a muckle lad, all right, but ye’re no—”

  “Bluidy hell! Let her carry Ranald!” Dougal broke in furiously. “Why should we give up a horse for her? ‘Tisna our fault her da didna want her!”

  Page froze at the declaration, her gaze flying to Dougal. For an instant she wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly. The suddenly wary expressions upon the faces staring at her told her differently. Her heart twisted as she turned to meet Iain’s gaze. “What... what did he mean... that my father did not want me?”

  “Dinna listen to Dougal, lass.” She saw the truth in his eyes, though he denied it.

  “Did my father not want me?” She persisted, her body tense, her breath bated while she awaited his response.

  He stood silent, staring, refusing to answer, and Page saw in his expression the one thing she could not bear. Pity. She saw his pity, and her heart filled with sudden fury—fury at her father for discarding her so easily, fury at Iain MacKinnon for lying to her—fury at herself for wanting something that could never be.

  “I’ll take the poor bastard!” Broc announced, elbowing his way into the gathering. “I’ll take him! It isna right to let her bear the burden! What’s wrong wi’ the lot o’ ye anyhoo?” He glared at Dougal particularly, and pointed out, “We’re his friends!”

  The silence that fell between them might have lasted an instant, or an eternity, Page didn’t know. She felt benumbed.

  “I’ll take him,” Kerwyn relented, shoving Dougal angrily.

  “Nay... I should,” Kermichil suggested, casting a glower in Dougal’s direction.

  “Mayhap I should,” Kerr yielded, and he, too, gave Dougal a fierce glare. “Look what ye’ve gone and done,” he said, casting a glance in Page’s direction.

  Shamed into it, Dougal relented. “Verra well! I’ll carry the stinkin’ whoreson!”

  “Nay! I said I would take him!” Broc argued. “Och, but you’ve gone and done enough already, ye bluidy mewling bastard!”

  Page was scarcely aware of the glance Broc cast in her direction, but she felt his pity like a mountain of ash, blackening her mood just as surely as had she wallowed in it. She didn’t fool herself into believing the behemoth cared for her. Nay, but he felt sorry for her. And that was the very last thing she wished from any of them.

  If she hadn’t been so staggered by Dougal’s disclosure, she might have been amused by the fact that they were all fighting now over who would carry Ranald. Brawling Scots. She moved away from the dispute, wanting to weep, but refusing to shed a single tear.

  Jesu, but her father didn’t want her.

  Had he refused outright? Or simply refused to deal with Iain? Or wasn’t it really the same?

  Iain pitied her. He must. Surely they all did!

  “Lass,” Iain began, coming up behind her and placing a hand gently to her shoulder.

  Page shrugged away from him, infused with anger. “Don’t touch me!” she spat, and whirled to face him. “How dare you lie to me! How dare you!”

  He was silent in the face of her accusation, his expression pensive as he stood staring.

  “Why did you lie to me?” she asked him, and then regretted the question at once. She knew why, of course. He pitied her! She was the wretched, unwanted daughter of his enemy—and he pitied her! “What did he say—my father?” she demanded to know. “How did he refuse me?”

  “Och, lass, does it matter?”

  Her fury mounted with the reminder that he could not even say her name. “Aye, it matters! Aye! Did you not believe I had a right to know?”

  She suddenly recalled the moment he’d come riding into the clearing with his son, the way he’d looked at her, and so much made sense. The looks upon all their faces—the shock when the MacKinnon had declared his intent to carry her home. The resentment they all seemed to feel for her. Broc aiding her in her escape...

  She could scarce bear the thought of it all.

  He seemed to consider her question, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He shook his head. “It matters not, lass... You’ve a home wi’ us.”

  Page made a woeful keening sound, and her throat closed with a tide of emotion. She swallowed. “Like some stray animal brought in out of the storm?” She swallowed again, and let her anger become a balm for her pain. “I think not. What if I’ve no wish to make my home with you? Jesu! Why would I care to live amongst a rude band of Scots who cannot even seem to get along among themselves!” She didn’t care if she was being cruel. She wanted to be—wanted to lash out and wound. That he had the audacity to stand there and seem unfazed by her churlish remark only made her all the angrier.

  All this time he’d known how her father had felt! All this time he must have pitied her! Somehow, it blasphemed even their lovemaking, for how could he have wanted her? God, but not even her father wanted her! Jesu, she couldn’t bear it.

  “I have a right to know!” Page persisted.

  He stood silent, his stance unyielding, his lips tight with displeasure.

  “Did he refuse you outright?”

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink, merely stared.

  “Did my father refuse you?”

  He turned away, his jaw taut, and shook his head with what Page perceived to be disgust. “Aye,” he said. “He did, lass.”

  Page felt the very life leave her suddenly, all her hopes, everything. Her legs would have given beneath her, but there was nowhere to lean, save her own two feet. As ever. Her voice sounded frail even to her own ears. “What did he say?”

  He turned to look at her, seeming to study her, and then said, “He simply refused, is all. He said naught.” And then he turned away abruptly, as though he could scarce bear to look at her.

  “I see,” she said, and somehow knew he was keeping the worst from her. Her father’s cruelty? Hah! She knew it already, didn’t he realize? She understood better than he did how brutal her father’s words could be. How many times had he taunted her that she was no man’s daughter? Certainly not his own? That she couldn’t possibly be his own flesh and blood? How many times had he told her she was unlovable? Despicable?

  More times than Page could recount.

  She wanted in that moment to tell Iain to fly to the devil—that she didn’t need him, or his charity, but it would be a ridiculous thing to claim.

  She did need him.

  What were her choices, after all? To live here in the woods with the beasts of the forest? To go crawling upon her knees to a king who would as likely spit in her face as not? Nay, she had no options, save for the one Iain MacKinnon offered her. And God’s truth, rather than feel grateful to him, she loathed him for it, and she wasn’t even certain why. Because he’d witnessed her shame? Because he’d made her feel wanted? Only to turn about and discover that he didn’t truly want her at all? That no one did. The knowledge filled her with a grief she’d never allowed herself before to feel.

  Somewhere, in the dusty, cobwebbed recesses of her heart, she had dared to believe that he’d been enticed by her—that he’d taken her because he’d wanted her. Not so. He’d pitied her—had been forced to bring her along solely because he had a conscience. Simple as that.

  And their afternoon? A simple tryst. No more. He was a man, and she a woman, after all, and he had needs that she could satisfy. And, God save her soul, she had done so readily, wantonly.

  Remembering the bloom in her hand, she opened her fist, only now realizing she’d held it so tightly closed, and stared at the crushed crocus. She was too disgusted with herself to even feel chagrined that she’d held on to it for so long. It was faded now, its petals worn and veined. Pursing her lips in self-disgust, she tossed the blossom to the ground, turned, and walked away, not darin
g a glance backward at Iain MacKinnon lest he spy her shame upon her face.

  The entire lot of them were coming near to blows now, still squabbling over who would carry Ranald. Page heard them, and yet heard nothing at all. Sweet Mary, but they were fickle souls, these Scots. Well, let them kill themselves over the dubious honor. She no longer had intentions of carrying poor damned Ranald! Poor damned Ranald could carry himself for all she cared! She had half an inclination to go find the nearest rock and sit down upon it until she withered away.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Iain had to restrain himself from going after her.

  Keeping him from it was the knowledge that any words he might think to utter would be wholly inadequate to ease the incredible sorrow he saw reflected there in her eyes.

  His gaze was drawn downward to the crumpled crocus blossom she had discarded. It was beaten beyond repair, its petals folded and distorted, but the fact that she had kept the memento told him it was somehow important to her, and just as he had felt compelled to pluck the blossom in the first place, he felt bound now to retrieve it to save for her. He bent, lifting it as gingerly as his big, unwieldy hands could manage, and then placed it within the folds of his breacan.

  “I really like her, da,” his son said in a whisper, appearing suddenly at his side.

  Iain glanced down at the smaller, begrimed image of himself and smiled. “Me too,” he said, and patted a hand over the crown of Malcom’s head.

  “But she has a mean da,” Malcom proclaimed. “I didna like him!”

  Iain’s gaze returned to Page. “Aye, son, that she does.” He stared pensively, thinking of her bastard da, only half listening to his son. “I didna like him either.”

  “He howled like a banshee and was verra mean!”

  Iain’s gaze snapped down to his son. “To you?”

  Malcom shook his head, and his little brows drew together into a frown. “Nay... to her. I was gain’ to beat him up!” he revealed with no small measure of pride.

  Iain chuckled and ruffled his son’s hair. “Were ye now?” He didn’t see any reason to point out the unlikely outcome of such a venture. “And what stopped ye, Malcom?”

  His brows lifted and he nodded. “I was verra scared,” he confessed.

  Iain’s grin widened at his son’s innate honesty.

  And then his little brows drew together once more. “Da,” he ventured. “Were ye afeared o’ her da, too?”

  Iain came to his haunches to face his son, sensing his question was not one to be taken lightly. In it he heard all the confusion of childhood—the irresolutions carried into manhood. It was an echo of his own childhood—the self-doubt never voiced for fear that his da would disparage him for it. He placed his hand to his son’s shoulder and confessed, “Verra much, Malcom.” Certainly not in the sense his son was speaking of, but he had been terrified unto death for Malcom’s sake. In truth, he’d been too damned furious, too afeared for Malcom’s safety to consider his own. Nor, he was ashamed to concede, did he consider the safety of his men. Nonetheless, Malcom was too young to understand the difference between the two, and Iain sensed his son needed to know his fear was only natural. He placed a hand to his son’s shoulder. “In truth, I was verra scared,” he confided in a whisper.

  Malcom nodded, and returned the embrace, placing his little hand upon Iain’s shoulder. “Dinna worry, da,” he said. “I willna tell, all right?”

  Iain smiled.

  Malcom returned the smile and drew himself up to his full height, straightening his back. His gaze slid to Page and then back to his da, and then he said, patting Iain’s shoulder, “She’s a right bonny lass, Da. Dinna ye think so?”

  Iain choked on a chuckle. He managed a sober nod. “Aye, son, I do.”

  Malcom nodded, as well. “And she sings verra pretty, too.”

  Iain’s gaze was drawn to where she sat upon a small stone. “That she does,” he agreed. “That she does.” He stood, staring pensively.

  “So d’ ye think we can keep her?” Malcom ventured.

  Iain found himself grinning down at his son, and soon to be coconspirator. “D’ ye wish to keep her, Malcom?”

  “Aye, da!” Malcom answered at once. “Sometimes...” he imparted, “dinna tell anybody, now... I wish for a mammy to sing me to sleep.”

  Iain’s heart squeezed a little at his son’s admission. There was no need to stretch the truth this time as he confessed, “I used to wish for the same, Malcom, when I was your age.”

  “Did ye truly, da?”

  “Aye.” More often than he could ever count, he had wished for that very thing. Mayhap, even, ’twas why he heard the echo in his mind of a voice that could never have existed. His mother’s voice. A haunting lilt that tugged at his heart and plagued his very soul.

  “Guid, then. Let us both woo her together. You work on her heart,” he charged his son.

  “And what part o’ her will you work to woo?” Malcom asked innocently. “Her brain, da? Will ye work to woo her brain?”

  Again Iain’s gaze was drawn to her. She sat, hugging a knee to her breast. The other leg stretched out, long, lean, and luscious, from beneath the tattered hem of her skirt. The very sight of it caused his blood to simmer and stir. God, but he could almost feel the soft, supple flesh of her calf slide beneath the touch of his hand. He watched an instant longer, shuddering, and then relented, turning back to his son. “Aye,” he said, his throat thick with a longing he could not suppress. “That, too.” He winked at his son conspiratorially.

  “Iain!” shouted Angus.

  Iain’s attention was drawn to the group of men who had gathered about Ranald’s body.

  Angus was holding the harness in his hands. He held it up for Iain to see. “I think ye’d better take a look at this,” he urged.

  Iain nodded, and turned back to his son. He ruffled a hand through Malcom’s hair. “Go on wi’ ye now, son, and woo her guid, ye hear?”

  Malcom beamed. “Aye, da!” he said, winking back in an exaggerated version of his father’s wink. “I will!” And then he turned and raced away.

  Iain watched Malcom scurry to where Page sat, knowing his son would succeed with her in ways he could never. No one could resist that dirty, plump little face. Certainly Iain couldn’t. Sure enough, she peered up from her melancholy thoughts to spy him, and even as Iain watched, Malcom managed to coax a smile from her lush lips.

  Satisfied that his son’s endeavors were going well enough, he went to see what it was that seemed to have Angus in a stir. All eyes remained upon him as he approached. The hairs at his nape stood at end. “What is it?”

  “Take a look for yourself,” Angus directed.

  Iain did, accepting the harness into his hands. At first glance, he saw nothing awry. He turned the harness, searching, and then his eyes fell upon the cleanly sliced cinch. He stiffened, knowing instinctively what it meant. He lifted the leather strap at once, inspecting it closer, ran a finger across the cut edge, and his body tensed.

  “Someone cut it.”

  “Aye,” agreed Angus. “Someone did.”

  “But who?” Iain’s gaze searched the lot of them.

  Angus shrugged. Broc stared at the mutilated harness, his brows drawn together into a frown. Kerwyn, Dougal, and Kermichil shook their heads and shrugged.

  Lagan held out his hand, asking without words to see the damage. Iain handed the harness to him, and he inspected it thoroughly. “Without doubt, ’twas cut,” he yielded after a moment’s deliberation. “But I saw no one among us do such a thing,” he avowed, casting a meaningful glance in Page’s direction. “Only the Sassenach wench was near the mounts alone,” he proclaimed.

  “’Tis the truth,” Dougal attested. “Only she was near the horses alone when she made her escape.”

  “Nay,” Broc argued. “She dinna do it. I watched her every moment, and she dinna do it!”

  Iain was too damned furious to consider Broc’s sudden change of heart toward Page. And if the truth be kn
own, too damned relieved. He had no doubts over Page’s innocence, but he was glad she had a champion aside from himself, one who’d been present, while he had not been.

  Page was certainly no genteel princess, but she would never have stooped to this, even to gain her freedom, he was certain. One look into her eyes while she’d defended her bastard da, or even his own son, told him as much. If she could defend a man who deserved to be drawn and quartered for his sins against her, there was no way she would harm another human being. Aye, and if she could defend a child she scarce knew, against a man such as he was reputed to be, he knew her heart was pure.

  But somebody had cut the cinch.

  The question was...

  Who?

  And was it intended for Ranald... or someone else?

  Never had such unease and mistrust run rampant through his clan. It seemed in the short time since Malcom’s abduction, the glue that held them bound was beginning to weaken. Mayhap David of Scotland would have his way, after all. He intended that the Highlands would fall behind him, and those who would not should fall by the wayside.

  Iain refused to comply. Be damned if he was going to stand about and watch while David handed all of Scotland to his Sassenach minions. And be damned if he was going to allow the English bastards to lay the yoke upon his people. He wasn’t about to hand over his son’s birthright to be trampled upon by English rule. The Highlands were their lands, no matter that they were bitter and cold in the winters, or too rugged and wild in the summers. It was their land, and by God, if Iain had any say over the matter, it would be their land until the last MacKinnon chieftain knelt before Heaven’s throne.