If Iain hadn’t known better, that his da had loved his mother fiercely, that he’d mourned her death till the day he’d died, he’d have thought her name a blasphemy in his house, for it had surely been unspeakable within his presence... and without.
“Da?” Malcom ventured once more, breaking into his gloom-filled thoughts.
“Aye, Malcom?”
“D’ ye think she would mind if I called her mammy?”
“Who, Malcom?”
“Page.”
Iain went perfectly still at the question.
“I think ye would do better to call her Suisan,” Page heard him tell his son.
She’d overheard enough of their conversation to feel the sting of tears prick her eyes. She hadn’t meant to, but had nevertheless, and now she didn’t know whether to make her presence known, or to turn about and flee.
Drawn by the firelight and the melancholy sound of the reed, she had come upon father and son standing there together in the shadows of the night, speaking softly with each other. A private conversation such as that Page might have longed for as a child. Lord, but she might have... had she known it possible to share such confidences. She stemmed the flood of envy that rose to nag her.
Ahead of them, the fire’s glow was a beacon in the dark of night.
A lone piper stood before it, playing his instrument with such funereal intensity that it seduced her feet to move forward. Curiosity along with the piper’s song drew her to Iain’s side to watch the strange gathering.
It seemed every last clan member was present for the occasion, their silhouettes congregated before the fire like moths before torchlight.
Both father and son turned to peer down at her.
For a long instant, Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, so moved was she by Malcom’s sweet question. Still they stared down at her.
“He can call me anything he likes,” she yielded softly. “Page is fine.”
A moment of silence passed between them while Iain stared down at her with unblinking eyes. “I thought you preferred Suisan,” he said at long last.
Page drew in a breath. “I thought I would,” she replied, holding his gaze, unblinking, as well. “Till just this instant I thought I would.” It occurred to her suddenly that her name was simply that, a name. In a sense, it was a badge of honor for all she’d suffered at her father’s hands. But no more did she feel shamed by it. To the contrary, she felt pride—because she’d endured. Because she was unbroken still. Jesu, but what greater revenge could she have over her misbegotten father than to live, and to live well, to walk with pride? Who could dare pity her when her heart was filled with gladness?
“I’ve decided,” she told them both, a slight smile crooking her lips, “that I like my name, after all.”
Iain’s beautiful lips curved at her declaration. “D’ ye now?”
“Aye,” Page answered flippantly, lifting a brow. “I believe I rather do.” Her heart swelled with a strange elation that she couldn’t quite fathom... and yet it was there... a keen, overwhelming sense of joy that was both unfamiliar and titillating.
Iain’s grin widened, and even in the darkness, Page could see the glimmer of his smile and the amused twinkle in his eyes.
She turned away, feeling strangely elated. “What are they doing?” she asked father and son together.
She watched the clansmen from the corners of her eyes.
“‘Tis for Ranald,” Iain told her, still scrutinizing her. Page turned to peer up at him. Illuminated by the distant firelight, his face was startlingly beautiful with its hard masculine lines. And his youthful features were striking in contrast with the bold silver at his temples. Her heart fluttered within her breast. “Our way of saying goodbye,” he revealed.
Page turned to regard the bonfire with new eyes, and at once focused upon the crudely constructed scaffold near it. Understanding dawned, and her smile at once twisted into a grimace. “Dear God! You plan to burn him!”
“Aye, lass,” Iain answered.
“Sweet Heaven above! Why? Jesu, but ‘tis barbaric!”
He merely chuckled. “Mayhap so.”
“No mayhap about it! Poor Ranald!”
“It canna be helped, Page.”
It was the first time he’d spoken her name, and Page lifted her face to meet his gaze, her heart leaping at the sound of it upon his lips.
“Ye canna bury a man in stone,” he yielded, his tone soft and matter-of-fact. The firelight flickered within his eyes, and the glimmer was both sad and amused at once. “ChreagachMhor is built upon solid rock. No spade can turn soil so unyielding as this.”
“Oh,” Page replied. He turned again to watch the mourners before the fire. So, too, did Page.
“The stone walls of my home,” he revealed, “were carved from these cliffs so long ago that not even my forefathers could recall whose hands first hewed them. And still they stand.”
He turned to peer over his shoulder at the strange tapered donjon that loomed behind them. Page followed his gaze. “Every last stone remains in place.”
She thought of her father’s endless repairs, and conceded, “’Tis remarkable.”
She was remarkable.
Iain found himself staring, admiring the proud tilt of her head, the stubborn lift of her chin, and the soft curve of her lips. He could scarce conceive that the woman he was seeing was the same woman he had thought to pity. There was naught about her bearing that elicited such a response from him this moment. Naught at all. She seemed taller even—something he’d never quite noticed about her—and he frowned, for she was perchance taller than any woman he’d e’er known.
She found she liked the name, did she? The vixen!
Och, but oddly enough, he found he suddenly liked the name, too.
Her face, illumined by the distant firelight, was aglow with something new... something he couldn’t quite place. Something delightful and heartening.
And his heart... it, too, was filled with something new... something deep and warm and yearning.
Something he dared not fully embrace lest he wake one unspeakable morn to find her expression rife with repulsion. He’d sworn to protect and care for her, aye, but love was an entanglement best eschewed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The funeral extended well into the night.
In his own manner, every last kinsman present paid last respects to poor Ranald, and then Iain lit a torch from the bonfire and set the pyre to flame. Ranald’s mother stood by, wailing. A few others wept softly. Most stood silent, their faces somber and their eyes melancholy. Among them, a lone piper played his reed, the melody both hypnotic and forlorn—and still a few others danced curiously to his strangely buoyant song.
Page watched in both revulsion and awe as the fire licked its way up the scaffold toward the body wrapped in new blankets. And even once the flames reached the platform she couldn’t make herself look away.
As she watched the flames consume, she felt curiously removed. For an instant, the piper’s sound drifted away, and only the roar of the fire reached her ears. From the corners of her eyes she saw the writhing dancers, and yet her focus remained upon the ashes that rose from the pyre—feathery shadows that floated up and disappeared beyond the rosy light of the bonfire into freedom. Free to roam the earth and settle at will, or not at all. Page imagined herself one of those floating ashes, and felt her soul lift along with it, into the cool black night. She lifted her gaze to peer into the moonless sky and found herself floating, floating... free...
Freedom. It was what she’d always wanted... what she’d sorely craved...
Or was it in truth?
Had she instead only longed that her father would reach out and snatch her far-wandering soul, and hold her fast against his heart?
Her gaze fastened upon a dark fluttering ash... Were she free to go... free to fly... where would she alight?
The soft sound of children’s voices drew her out of her reverie, and she peered down to spy Mal
com and his friends working at catching ashes in their palms.
She watched them an eternity, feeling never more the stranger in their midst.
As she watched them, they gathered what remained of Ranald’s body into their tiny hands, along with those charred wood flakes. They ran, scurrying to catch all that they could, gathering black rain into their little fists. They blackened their faces with the soot, blackened their eager little fingers.
And then as Page watched, they brought the fruits of their labors to Ranald’s mother... handed her the smothered ashes. One by one, they turned over their hands and sprinkled black dust into her cupped hands.
A smile touched her lips as Malcom turned over his own and nothing came forth. He scrunched his little nose as he peered down at his soot-blackened hand, and then he shrugged and wiped his fingers across her upturned hand. She smiled, and after speaking low to the lot of them, stood and lifted up her palms to the sky and let the ashes fly once more. What soot remained, she smeared across her breast—the part of him she would keep—and once again began to weep.
Page’s eyes stung with tears, and the thought struck her that true love was as ungrudging as a mother’s simple but unselfish gesture of releasing her beloved son’s ashes into the wind.
The kitchen reeked of lye soap.
Steam from boiling kettles curled upward to mix with acid fumes, the combination of heat and lye strong enough to burn the lungs from any breathing creature who should merely think to pass by the small stone building. And yet they all remained cheerful within, working diligently at her every command. She didn’t fool herself for an instant; these people were clearly desperate to rid themselves of their fleas and seemed eternally grateful and even eager to comply in any manner conceivable.
Page had awakened to a dark, empty room—Iain nowhere to be found—but she hadn’t been afforded time to lament the fact. Glenna had entered almost at once, her voice a cheerful admonition to be up and about.
God’s truth, Page might have loathed the woman at once, save that she was much too agreeable to be despised. Glenna had brought with her a tunic for Page to wear—one she’d claimed had never belonged to Iain’s wife at all. Page had found herself smiling as Glenna had assured her, blushing, that it was one of her own—from her younger, thinner days, of course.
It was a grand gesture, Page thought. She had never concerned herself overmuch with her manner of dress, and was only mildly embarrassed that Glenna should think she needed a new gown. She was entirely dismayed, however, to find that even the tunic had fleas!
Page had, at once, taken it upon herself to rid the MacKinnon clan of their fleas. Recalling how they’d managed Aldergh's infestation a few years past, she set about the tasks with zeal. With Glenna’s help, she managed to gather the infested men and women together and was in the process of boiling garments within the massive iron kettles.
The kitchen was pervaded with perspiring bodies; some merely observing the strange ritual, others participating. When she dared to bathe Broc’s dog, the flea-breeding culprit, stunned murmurs accosted her ears. Some whispered in Gaelic. Others in plain English.
“Och, but I think she’s gain’ to wash the bluidy dog!” exclaimed someone.
“I’ll be damned, she is gain’ to wash the bluidy dog!” said another.
“Must be a Sassenach curse to ward away fleas,” whispered another.
Page didn’t hesitate at her task, nor did she linger to explain. She thought it rather an obvious solution, and marveled that no one had ever thought of it before now. Smiling, she cast the animal into a lye-soaped tub, and scrubbed his matted fur until she thought he might go bald from the scouring. The beast never protested, for all that, it merely arched its back like a blessed cat, and luxuriated in the bath. Poor Merry Bells. Likely the dog was so bitten and abused by the horrid little creatures that even Page’s scrubbing was a favor.
When she was done with Merry Bells, she granted Malcom and one of his friends the dubious honor of hunting whatever fleas remained. She showed them how to search, found a few for them, and then set them to work. She left the two snickering, pretending to hunt down “dirty MacLeans hiding within MacKinnon territory.”
That done, she emptied the tub, and then began to refill it with clean water to bathe the Behemoth and his friends. Without a doubt, she knew they wouldn’t like it, but somehow she would need to convince them that it was for their own good.
She didn’t notice the crowd gathered before the wash kettle until it was too late and they were all divested of their clothing. Starting when she turned to spy their bare bottoms and nude bodies congregated about the steaming cauldron, she gasped aloud and slapped a hand over her eyes to hide the shocking view. Sweet Jesu, but these Scotsmen had no shame at all, she decided. Never in her life had she known men so eager to undress—or mayhap she had, but certainly none without some ulterior motive! Peeking between fingers, she spied the last of them dropping tunic and breacan into the wash kettle, and her face heated from more than just the heat of the steam-filled kitchen.
Never mind that she’d thought herself perfectly capable of carrying out this task—she was mortified!
Certainly she’d seen men unclothed. Her father and brothers had had little regard for small courtesies where she had been concerned—and she had fully intended to wash Broc, after all—but sweet Jesu, this was ludicrous! She peered about to find that the other women present were perfectly at ease. While they were—thank God!—somewhat more modest, they seemed to take little heed of the rampant nudity accosting them!
Groaning in dismay, Page snapped her fingers together and contemplated her options. She could go screaming from the room, and look like a fool. Or she could uncover her eyes and finish the task she’d begun. She rubbed at her temples, pretending a headache.
Iain wasn’t certain whether to kiss her senseless, or paddle her delightful derriere.
He’d missed her—missed her like he’d never thought it possible to miss the sight of a bonny face in the few hours since he’d seen her last, lying so cozy within his bed.
He stood in the doorway to the kitchen now, his hands braced upon either side of the frame, and simply stared within.
At his end of the room stood his witless men, chattering idly about a steaming cauldron like a huddle of old women—all of them naked as the day they’d been spewed from their mammies’ wombs! God’s blessed teeth! He certainly didn’t believe in false modesties, and his men had never been overly discreet, but this was ridiculous! Leave her alone with them for five bloody minutes, and he returns to find them undressed every damned time. Damn, but if she didn’t look so bloody abashed by the lot of them, he might have thought it deliberate upon her part, for he couldn’t recall a time when his men had been so eager to strut about unclothed.
It took him a few befuddled minutes to even make out the purpose of this boiler room. His first clue had been a very wet Merry Bells—with his son and young Keith diligently searching her shaggy coat. His next was the stench of lye, and the boiling cauldron of bleeding wool. And lastly, his son’s excited shout of “A flea! A flea! I got one!” as he held out his pinched fingers for Keith’s eager inspection.
“I see no flea!” Keith argued.
Iain didn’t know whether to be proud that she was concerned for the welfare of his kinfolk, or furious that she would so unwisely place herself in a room full of naked, lust-ridden men. Christ, but it was all he could do not to dunk them all into that boiling cauldron along with their clothes!
His gaze remained upon Page as he waited to see what she would do.
Until he happened to spy Broc’s bare arse headed in her direction, and in that moment, any warm thoughts over her charitable gesture fled entirely. With a snarl of displeasure, he shoved away from the doorframe and stalked into the room. Spying him, Broc halted in his step, and the room fell to a hush. Page, however, was unaware of his presence, for her eyes were still dutifully covered, until he snatched her by the arm.
; She shrieked in startle when he jerked her after him, dragging her out of the room.
“Wait!” she protested. “I’m not yet done!”
“Aye ye are!” Iain asserted.
“But I have to give Broc a bath!” she announced, though she didn’t struggle.
“Oh, no ye don’,” he argued.
“The fleas!” Page protested, stumbling after him.
“What about them?” Iain answered, no hesitation in his stride. “Och, but the lad has been bathin’ himself for four and twenty years—I think he’ll do well enough withoot ye!”
He led her out of the kitchen, leaving those within to stare, grinning, after them.
Lagan’s smile faded the instant they walked out from the door. “Besotted fools!” he whispered to Glenna.
Glenna’s smile faded, as well, as she turned to contemplate the boy she’d raised from birth. “Lagan,” she reasoned, her voice aggrieved. “Can ye no’ be happy for him just once? Can ye no’ see that he’s suffered enough?”
Lagan’s eyes glittered with resentment. “And what of me?” he asked. “Have I no’ suffered enough, as well?”
“Lagan,” she objected. “He is your—”
“We both know what he is to me, Mother,” he scoffed.
“Och, Lagan, but have I not loved ye well?” He stared, unmoved by her question, and she lowered her eyes. “Then at least remember that he is your laird, and do not speak of him so.”
“My brother, my laird,” he whispered into her ear, mocking her. “Damn but it galls. What have I ever had of him?” he asked her, his lips curling into a snarl.
“Everything that he could give,” she answered him.
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