Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Aye?” Lagan challenged Broc. “Ye watched her every moment? So, then, tell us... is that why she was able to swim away from us and steal our goddamned horses?”

  “One horse,” Broc argued with a frown for Dougal, and one for Lagan.

  Iain met Broc’s gaze, his own eyes narrowed in question. Broc’s gaze skidded away, his face reddening under so much scrutiny.

  “Answer to it, Broc,” Iain directed. “Did you, or did you not, watch her as you claim?”

  “Aye, laird,” Broc confessed. “I did. I watched her every moment as I said.”

  “Then he must be scheming wi’ her!” Lagan declared furiously. “Why would he watch her and let her go unless he was?”

  Iain had a suspicion as to why, but he wanted to hear it from Broc’s own lips. His gaze upon Broc was unrelenting, and the youth seemed to sense it, for he didn’t dare to meet Iain’s eyes. “Broc? What say you to that?”

  “I didna think ye really wanted her, laird,” he confessed, peering up from the ground at long last.

  “Neither did she seem to wish to stay. And I dinna like her for the way she seemed to mock us.” His mouth twisted into an embarrassed grimace. “I didna believe she should come wi’ us, and I thought ye just didna hae the heart to send her away.”

  “So ye thought to do me a service and help her on her way?”

  Broc nodded.

  “D’ ye no’ think I could make such a decision on my own, lad?” Iain asked him.

  “Aye,” Broc answered.

  “Christ and bedamned, what ails the lot o’ ye?” Iain asked them angrily. “You bring to mind a company of old maids, bickering like ye do amongst yourselves!”

  “Somethin’s been amiss since we came into this Sassenach land, Iain,” Angus proposed. “First poor Ranald, now this.”

  “And I wager ‘tis all her doin’!” Dougal asserted, casting a menacing glance in Page’s direction.

  Iain shook his head. “Something’s been amiss since the verra beginning,” he countered. “Ye dinna remember the reason we came into this Sassenach land to begin wi’. It wasna reivin’ or wenchin’ that brought us here. Someone took my bluidy son, remember?” His hands went to his hips. “Nay.” He cast a glance in Page’s direction, and then returned it to the small group of men standing before him.

  Not all of his men were aware of the situation: some were idling away the time, waiting for the cavalcade to begin once again. Iain’s gaze scanned the area, watching the small groups at their discourse and respite. “I dinna think she had anythin’ to do wi’ Ranald’s death,” he asserted.

  “And ye dinna think ’twas her da?” Kermichil asked, his lips pursing in deliberation.

  “Nay. We’ve no’ been followed,” Iain answered with certainty. “I thought so at first, but nay. I’ve no notion who got to Ranald, but ’twas no’ her da, and she dinna do it,” he assured them. “Someone did. But Ranald, ye recall, was slain by an arrow through the breast. Even were she skilled with the bow, she’s had no access to such a weapon, and she was watched besides—by me!” he interjected, lest there be any doubt. “Nay, ’twas someone else.”

  Both Broc and Angus nodded agreement.

  “What d’ye think, then, Iain?” asked Lagan. “If ‘twas no’ her da...”

  “Then it must be brigands!” Kerwyn interposed.

  “Or one o’ us,” Broc suggested, though he seemed loath to put forth such a notion. His gaze scanned the men present, waiting, it seemed, for them to point the finger at him once more.

  “Aye, Broc,” Iain agreed, nodding, his expression grave. “Or one o’ us...” Iain, too, scrutinized them, taking in their sober expressions, their rigid stances. All of them had been closely knit too long to suspect a single one of them. Some, he’d seen their naked arses spanked by their mammies as laddies; a few others had been there to see his own walloped by his da. Their lives and their legacies were intermingled and belonged to the clan MacKinnon, their heritage handed down by the mighty sons of MacAlpin. It pained his heart to think of any one of them as guilty.

  And yet one of them was.

  “I say ‘tis Broc!” Dougal exploded, turning and shoving the titan youth with all his might.

  Broc barely budged over the effort, and Iain nearly laughed out loud despite the gravity of their situation.

  “You whoreson Sassenach abettor!” Dougal snarled.

  To his credit, though, Broc’s eyes reflected his fury, he didn’t bother to return Dougal’s callow shove. He stood, frowning down at his peer. Broc and Dougal had long shared a friendly rivalry, one that seemed now to have become heartfelt.

  “Enough, Dougal!” Iain reproved, his tone unyielding, lest they mistake his reasoning for lack of intent. “Fighting amidst ourselves gains us naught,” he told them.

  Dougal, red faced over the lack of impact he’d had upon Broc’s massive form, and Iain’s rebuke, nodded his agreement as he stared, brooding now, at the ground before him.

  “My charge to all o’ ye is this,” Iain told them, his eyes narrowing and alighting upon each and every one separately. “Watch your backs, all o’ ye. Guard each other well. Dougal and Broc,” he directed, “put your differences aside for now.” He cast them each a foreboding glance and said, “It seems there is a traitor amongst us.”

  Each and every man nodded, looking as glum as Iain had ever seen them. There was no denying the truth.

  The evidence was indisputable.

  “A message o’ warning to whoever that mon might be,” Iain concluded. “When I discover who ye are... and I will unmask the bluidy whoreson... I’ll hold your heart in my hands and watch ye greet your maker as the heartless bastard ye are.”

  Every man present shook his head, denying responsibility.

  “I didna do it,” Dougal muttered, shaking his head adamantly.

  “Nor I,” muttered another.

  “Or me,” came the echo.

  “Weel,” Iain answered, “ye can bluidy damned well pass it on, anyhoo.”

  “The whoreson knows who he is,” Angus agreed somberly. “And I’d wager he dinna have in mind for that tumble down the mount to be poor Ranald’s either.”

  “That he does,” Iain granted. “And nay... that tumble down the hillside was meant to put more than scrapes on a bluidy corpse. Mayhap ’twas meant for her...” He cast a nod in Page’s direction. “And mayhap ‘twas meant for my son.” His jaw went taut. His hands clenched at his sides. “Either way... may God forgive his cold heart, because I mean to carve it from his verra body with my own hands and feed it to the raving wolves! Tell him that for me, will ye now,” Iain charged them, and left them to mull over his counsel.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The MacKinnon was in a foul mood.

  Page didn’t need to hear the whispered warnings to know she should endeavor to stay out of his way. She’d learned her lessons well in her father’s home. She wasn’t precisely certain what it was that had turned his mood so foul, but she knew it had something to do with the discourse he’d shared with his men earlier in the day. She’d known by the way he’d stood talking with them, and then by the way he’d pivoted and left them. The scowl upon his face had been daunting enough to make her cower where she’d sat upon her little stone.

  Without a word he’d saddled her mount with his own harness and trappings, and then had decreed she would ride with Malcom. And then without a word he’d ridden beside them, making only an occasional swoop over his cavalcade, speaking sharply to those he stopped to address.

  Only Malcom seemed unaffected by his mood, and Page thought it either very foolish, or very telling. She was beginning to believe the latter, as she’d never heard Iain speak a single unkind word to his son, but she was beyond the point of feeling envious over that fact. On the contrary, she was glad for Malcom. He was a bright child, with a wit almost as sharp as his father’s. And no child deserved ill treatment—not from anyone.

  She and Malcom whiled away the hours talking about everything.
He told her of his home, ChreagachMhor—that the stone walls of his father’s donjon had been built long before the first MacKinnon had set foot upon God’s earth. He told her all about his da, about things she wasn’t certain Iain would wish her to know—that his da sometimes had nightmares, and that he called out his mother’s name.

  Mairi.

  Of all names to choose, it was the first false name she’d given him, she realized. He’d fallen silent. She wondered if he found her lacking compared to his wife.

  Likely so.

  He plainly loved her still.

  The fact bothered Page more than it should have. God’s truth, she didn’t understand it, but somehow, knowing that Iain could never have harmed his wife, she’d rather have thought he might than to think he yet loved her, and dreamt of her so oft. She didn’t understand it, didn’t even try to, for it seemed a ludicrous notion, and she rather thought that if he were capable of such a horror as murdering a wife, she couldn’t even like him. Tangled emotions. Even more tangled thoughts.

  The only one thing that she did know was that, like it or nay, she would have to make the best of this situation God had cast her within. Her father wasn’t coming after her. She could stop peering over her shoulder now, and dropping scraps of cloth for him to follow. She could stop hoping, and start living as best she could.

  But God have mercy upon her soul, she refused to stop loathing him. Somehow, with the knowledge that he had so easily and so completely repudiated her—to strangers!—she found that every last shred of kindly emotion she’d once harbored for him fled. And in truth, it had never been easy to love him, she acknowledged. She had loved him only because she’d felt she must. Because he was the only kin she’d ever known. Well, no more! The knowledge had freed her of whatever obligatory love she’d once had for him.

  For better or for worse, these were to be her people now.

  Sitting there alone upon that stone, she’d felt so far removed from everything and everyone she’d ever known.

  And then Malcom had come to speak with her, and he’d brightened her heart with his smiles and his words. This dirty little Scots boy, with the green eyes, golden hair, and a face that was an almost perfect replica of his father’s.

  Aye, these were her people now, she resolved.

  Mayhap she would never have chosen them—nor they her—but God had seen fit to cast them together, and she was determined to feel grateful, despite the anger and hurt she felt. And she was even more determined to earn her keep, however possible.

  They continued the northward ride mostly in silence, but for Malcom’s occasional familiar illumination. When the winds lifted, Malcom turned and buried his little face against her bosom, and she sheltered him as best she could, singing to him to pass the time. Amazing, she’d never thought a body could withstand such frigid temperatures, though while Malcom seemed ready enough to snuggle against her, she was the only one left shivering.

  Mayhap it was the emptiness within her that made her feel so chilled. Absurdly, the thought that Iain MacKinnon pitied her made her feel more depleted even than her father’s betrayal.

  Foolish girl, she berated herself.

  How could you have possibly believed he could love you?

  She hadn’t expected love, she told herself, and hadn’t gotten it. So why should she feel so disheartened?

  God’s truth, she didn’t know, but she did.

  The weather became more insane the farther north they traveled.

  They awakened the next morning to a fine, cold mist that no sooner settled upon the flesh than it began seeping down into the bones. And still she was the only one shivering. These Scotsmen surrounding her seemed wholly immune to the savage weather they faced.

  It seemed remarkable to Page that it could be so cold when the sun shone brightly down upon them. But it was. And it was a cold that benumbed the flesh and paralyzed the body. They gained an early start, covering more ground than it seemed conceivable for the horses to cover, when her own fragile bones seemed frozen and incapable of motion.

  When it ceased to rain at last she had no chance to rejoice in the fact, for within mere instants of the rain’s departure came the snow. Stunned, she put out her hand to be certain she wasn’t imagining it, and was stupefied to find white feathery flakes alighting upon her sun-pinkened flesh—such fine flakes, they melted upon contact, but flakes, they were.

  And Jesu, it was in that moment, as she scrutinized the MacKinnon men, that she realized what remarkable fortitudes they each possessed. Not a one of them complained even the least, though more than half wore not even shoes. Bare legged and bare of feet, with only their breacans to buffer them from the piercing wind and cold, they rode with their spines rigid and their heads held high and proud.

  Not Page. She, on the other hand, while she dared not voice her discomfort, was huddled over Malcom, trying desperately to warm her body. Her feet were bare as well, but she did not endure it so nobly. Her distress must have been evident, for Iain removed his breacan and approached her, throwing the thick woolen blanket as a mantle over her shoulders. She was loath to take his charity, but didn’t dare refuse it. As it was, were it not for Malcom’s little body seated before her, she thought she would have perished long before now. Sweet Jesu! Whatever the rain left untouched, the chill wind permeated.

  Broc, too, came and offered his blanket, unsettling Page, and making her eyes burn with tears. She tried to refuse him, but he held his hand out resolutely.

  “For the lad,” he said low, nodding and urging her to take it.

  Swallowing her pride, for Malcom lay sleeping against her bosom with nary a single shiver—she knew the gesture was for her—she accepted the blanket, her eyes stinging horribly.

  Broc remained at her side a moment longer, making idle talk about his dog, Merry Bells, and reminding her belatedly of his unfortunate affliction. She stared down at the blanket she’d placed over Malcom and herself, and endeavored to hide her grimace of disgust. She fought the urge to fling the blanket back at the fair-faced behemoth, but was reluctant to offend him. Poor child would likely end up with fleas—and herself, as well. She cast a glance at Broc to find him scratching his head, and determined to help rid him once and for all of his infestation.

  Broc remained by her side, regaling her with tales of the world’s most clever dog, until Iain returned to ride beside her. A single glance from his laird sent Broc on his way. And then once again Page rode in silence, for Iain didn’t deign to speak to her.

  He wouldn’t even look at her.

  Though she knew it was ludicrous, she was still angry with him—couldn’t help herself. In withholding the truth, he had, after all, merely had the audacity to consider her feelings. She should have been grateful, but somehow couldn’t gather the sentiment. She wanted to cut out his tongue for lying to her—for keeping the truth from her. It was the same as a lie, wasn’t it? She wanted to slap his mouth for daring to kiss her—for having the gall to make her feel cherished, when she dared not feel anything at all.

  Sweet Jesu, but more than aught else, she wanted to fling herself into his arms and weep until the last tear was shed. She wanted him to hold her, kiss her, love her. She wanted to forget herself within his arms, let him carry her again to that sweet place where only the body mattered, the heart did not—and she wanted to stay there for all of eternity, never to return.

  She wanted to force him to acknowledge her, to look at her again as he had—not with that piteous expression that made her heart ache and made her want to gouge out his eyes.

  As ever, it seemed, she wanted too much, for Iain MacKinnon continued to ride beside her deep in silence, casting her only the occasional brooding glance.

  He was running out of time.

  It wouldn’t be long now before Iain began to unravel the tangled thread of clues.

  And where would that leave him? With nothing once again—damned if he’d allow it to happen!

  Nay, he’d have to accelerate his plans, make th
e most of every opportunity. Bluidy troublesome wench had managed to set them all to rights without even lifting her voice in censure. Christ, but she’d had them all scurrying with shame o’er the honor of carrying Ranald’s stinkin’ body.

  He hadn’t offered, and he wondered now if Iain had noticed. He cast a furtive glance at the laird of the MacKinnons, and found him brooding still, his expression black as his da’s heart had been. He hadn’t said much since Ranald’s tumble. Not to anyone—not even to his Sassenach whore, though he watched her every second he thought she would not spy him at his lovelorn glances.

  For her part, she sat there, her expressions too easy to read: a mixture of longing, fury, and pain. Aye, well, he’d put the bitch out of her misery afore long.

  God, but merely the thought of it brought an anticipatory smile to his lips.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Soaring upon a gently sloping, heathered hill, ChreagachMhor seemed an enchanted place. Not even Malcom’s tales, pride filled though they were, could have prepared her for the rustic, fantastical beauty of the stone sentinel upon the hilltop. The very sight of it stole Page’s breath away.

  As cool as the weather remained high in these hills, the heather bloomed a brilliant violet against a vivid carpet of green. Scattered across the lush landscape, rugged stones stood like proud sentries to guard the mammoth tower. Small thatch-roofed buildings spattered the hillside. The rounded donjon itself was like no other donjon Page had ever set eyes upon. The structure rose against the twilight sky, a sleek, tapering grayish silhouette against the darkening horizon.

  Page held her breath as they climbed the hill toward it, her expression one of awe. It was a dream vision of incomparable beauty, nothing at all like the ugly stone fortress that was Aldergh.

  Built solely for defense, Aldergh was a monstrosity, a scabrous creation that sullied the beauty of the English meadow upon which it was seated.