The MacKinnon's Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Her father wanted her back!

  She felt invulnerable with that knowledge, warmed like never before, exhilarated, as if she were soaring to the heights of Heaven with her joy.

  Until the MacKinnon’s gaze turned upon her.

  The look he cast her sent a frisson racing down her spine. His stance was rigid in the saddle, the muscle in his jaw ticked, and his amber-gold eyes pierced her as surely as a Welshman’s arrow. God help her, she couldn’t have torn her gaze away had she tried.

  She’d been weeping.

  Inexplicable anger mounted within Iain.

  Damn, but she wasn’t his concern.

  The best he could do was release her and be along his merry way.

  So why did he feel like pivoting his mount about, calling her father down, and running his blade through the bastard’s black heart?

  The moment she’d spied Malcom sitting before him, her eyes lit with joy. Not a trace of avenging pride. And relief, he spied relief there, as well. His heart squeezed painfully, for it occurred to him, then, just what it was she thought. She assumed her father had bargained for her return.

  Worthless bastard. He should have bargained for her return!

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.

  How could he tell her that her whoreson father had given her the greatest insult? That he couldn’t have cared one whit what was done to her now—and that he certainly hadn’t wished her return? Christ, that he’d sworn, even, to rip out her tongue? What manner of father was that?

  Nay, he couldn’t do it; he couldn’t bring himself to break her heart.

  How could her father?

  Her hopeful expression was Iain’s undoing. Or mayhap ’twas simply the memory of how she’d spoken so heroically of the father who plainly didn’t care for her.

  It turned his stomach, made him feel things he had no cause to feel.

  She came forward, looking more fragile than Iain recalled, and it was all he could do to wipe the disgust from his face. With mere words he thought he might break her in twain. He pictured her lying, weeping at his feet, her spirit broken, and the image both anguished and angered him.

  Nay, he couldn’t tell her.

  “You...” She choked on her words. “You will take me home now?” Her eyes were bright and full of hope, her voice soft and anticipative. “You’ll take me home?”

  Iain’s heart squeezed harder. He wanted in that instant to draw her into his arms, to soothe her, kiss her fears away, smooth the worries from her brow. He wanted to shake her violently and tell her that her father was a poor example of a father and that she didn’t need him.

  God’s truth, FitzSimon’s daughter was the last thing he needed in his life. She was a troublesome wench who was like to turn the rest of his hair gray before his years, but he found himself compelled to save her feelings despite the fact.

  Unfortunately, he knew only one way to do so.

  Not truly understanding why he was driven to, he said, “Nay, wench. I’ll not.”

  Her brows drew together in confusion, and she straightened. “What do you mean, you will not?”

  His jaw clenched, and he said, “Just what I said, wench. I’ll not be returning you to your damnable father!” His voice lacked the heat of anger, though she didn’t seem to notice in her rising temper, and Iain thought she looked stronger armed with fury.

  Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and outrage. “But he returned your son!” she pointed out.

  Iain placed his hand upon Malcom’s back. “That he did,” he agreed, and glanced about at his men, meeting their gazes, one after another. Their astonishment was more than evident in their countenances, but he apprised them silently not to gainsay him. Though in truth, Iain didn’t think they would have been capable, even had they wished to. Auld Angus’s jaw had slackened near to his belly, and if Iain had not been so bloody angry, he might have found the contrary old bugger’s expression comical. His gaze returned to FitzSimon’s daughter.

  She was becoming infuriated now, and he welcomed it, knowing she would need her rage to sustain her.

  “But my father kept his end of the bargain!” she screeched at him. Iain merely nodded, but his jaw worked. “You would renege upon your word, sir?”

  “Apparently so,” he lied without compunction.

  “But, Papa,” Malcom whispered, peering up in surprise. Iain shushed him with a downward glance and a pat upon the back.

  “How dare you!” she railed. “Why? Why would you do this?”

  “Verra simple,” Iain told her, meeting her gaze. “An eye for an eye, lass. Your da conspired in the takin’ o’ my son. ‘Tis only meet I should return the favor in kind.”

  “You are a madman!”

  Iain thought perhaps it was so. “That I may be, lass,” he agreed with a frown. “Nonetheless, you’ll be coming along wi’ us.”

  “But my father!” she exclaimed.

  “Your father,” he declared, “can go to bluidy Hell!”

  chapter 6

  “He’ll hunt you down!” Page swore.

  She couldn’t believe it!

  She was torn between disbelief that her father would risk the king’s wrath to have her back and sheer joy that he’d done so—and she was furious with the man before her, for daring to break his pact with her father when for the first time in her life it seemed her father valued her, wanted her—and this miscreant would dare rob her of that joy!

  Not if she could help it, by God!

  She glanced about and found his men all staring at their laird, their expressions as shocked as her own must seem. Their stupor gave her the opening she needed. She didn’t care how many of his men surrounded her. She had absolutely no intentions of going with them peacefully! Somehow or another, she was returning to her father and they’d have to kill her to stop her!

  Without giving them warning of her intent, or time to consider her response, she turned, found an opening behind her, and made a frantic dash into the forest.

  She heard the MacKinnon’s curse behind her.

  Page didn’t dare slow her step, even as the sounds of pursuit began in earnest, nor did she look back to see that they were following. She ran with all her might, slipping through the woods with the ease of one who knew them intimately.

  And then suddenly her hem snagged upon a gnarled tree root. She muttered an oath, trying to jerk it free, and those precious lost seconds were to her misfortune. Within the instant, she was surrounded by scowling Scotsmen. And then once again she was confronted by the MacKinnon, his son no longer in the saddle before him.

  He dismounted, his expression black as he came toward her. Page thought he might strike her, so purposeful was his stride, but he didn’t. She didn’t cower as he reached out, though he merely seized her hem and jerked it free, then stood staring at her furiously. “You’re going to make me sorely regret this!”

  Page smiled fiercely. “I surely will!” she vowed, drawing herself up to her full height. Again it struck her how tall the man was, for she reached only to his chin, and she was not, by any means, diminutive. In truth, her father had always thought her much too long limbed for a woman.

  “I should bluidy well let you go!” he swore, his jaw working angrily.

  Page’s brows lifted, for he truly seemed to be considering the prospect. “You should?”

  “Aye,” he said, “and count myself bluidy fortunate that you’re gone, but I won’t!”

  He wished to let her go? But he wouldn’t? Page didn’t understand. “Nay?”

  “Nay!”

  Her heart hammered wildly over the faint suspicion that reared. “Why not?”

  “Because my da raised himself a rattlebrained arse!” he swore “That’s why!” And if his pronouncement hadn’t been shocking enough, he lifted her up suddenly, as though she were no more than a sack of grain, and bore back her to his mount, flinging her unceremoniously over his saddle.

  Page shrieked in outrage, and then gasped as the air w
as driven from her lungs. Without preamble, he mounted behind her, holding her fast with an arm, and then lifted her up to scoot forward, pinioning her to his lap with the inescapable strength in his arm. Jesu, but the man must be made of stone, unyielding as he was!

  “You will sorely regret this!” Page swore. “I will see to it with every waking breath I take!” How dare the brute treat her as though she were nothing more than chattel to be absconded with at will! How dare he keep her from her father! She couldn’t bear it! All her life she’d waited for this moment, prayed for it, only to lose it by a sordid twist of fate. “I will plague you every day of your miserable life!” she vowed.

  “I have no doubt of that,” he said tightly, and spurred his mount. “I’m merely a man, lass. Keep wiggling that backside so insistently, and I’ll be sorely tempted, I assure you!”

  Page gasped in outrage.

  “Gather your belongings!” he commanded his men. “We leave at once!”

  To Page’s consternation, it took them little time at all to gather their possessions—barbarians that they were, they traveled with little more than the breacans they wore belted about their bodies. They were off within minutes.

  Page refused to allow herself to feel defeat.

  For all of her twenty years she had fended for herself. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to find her way home. In the meantime, she fully intended to keep her word. The MacKinnon, indeed, was going to be a miserable man!

  Spring came late to the northern reaches.

  Biding her time, observing the differences in the landscape as they traveled northward, Page tried not to think of the risk her father had taken on her behalf. What would King Henry do to him when he discovered that her father had given up the boy for her? And then had promptly lost her, as well?

  Why hadn’t he sent men to see to her return?

  How could he have trusted the word of a Scotsman?

  Curse the MacKinnon! The ignoble wretch!

  The trees now were less abundant with foliage. A few were lush with new green growth; some sprouted new leaves that reminded Page of green feathers. Some trees were as yet bare, still to be touched by God’s masterful hand and miraculous paint.

  She had always loved the land.

  A wildling, her father had called her. It didn’t matter; it had never disturbed her in the least that he’d thought her so, for she’d always felt more as though she were Nature’s child than his. In truth, it was the only time she ever felt truly whole—when she was at one with God’s earth. That was the reason she’d stolen away from the castle all those many nights. It gave her soul great peace.

  But it was also the reason she was in this damnable predicament.

  Page frowned as she thought of the man seated so intimately at her back. She’d managed to shut him out of her thoughts for most of the morning. Only when he so arrogantly drew her back against him did she deign to acknowledge him, elbowing him and shrugging free to sit forward once more. The more distance she was able to place between them, the more at ease she felt.

  Now, again, he drew her back against him and she wrenched forward, turning to glare at him. “Do you mind overmuch?” she asked, exasperated. “Force me to ride well nigh in your lap, if you will, but you cannot force me to abide your touch!”

  “Suit yourself, vixen.” She felt his sigh more than heard it. “God’s teeth, but you’re a sour- mouthed wench, if e’er I knew one.”

  “Truly?” she asked sweetly, mocking him. “I do wonder why that is.”

  “‘Tis likely you were born that way,” he answered uncharitably.

  Page felt like turning and slapping his arrogant face. “Nay, but you’re a mean brute!” she returned. “You must realize my father will come after us,” she apprised him. “He does not like to be thwarted, I assure you!”

  For an instant he didn’t respond, and Page could almost feel his tension mounting at her back. “Will he?” he answered, after a moment. She thought he might have been contemplating the possibility. Good. She hoped he was considering the repercussions of his actions, and fearing for his life. Neither her father nor King Henry would stand for his perfidy.

  “Sit back, lass,” he commanded, though not unkindly, and drew her against him once more, this time pinning her against his chest.

  Page struggled against his unwelcome embrace, to no avail. “Arrrghhh!”

  “You’ll end up lame riding in that unlimber position. Rest yourself. I willna bite.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Page said through clenched teeth, sinking her nails into the arm that held her like plaster to his massive frame. “Sweet Jesu, but you’re a brute!” she accused him when he would not budge. Neither did he seem to be affected by the pressure she was inflicting upon his arm. Rather he sat there in stony silence, and it was as though he felt nothing at all. With a disgruntled sigh, she relented and released his arm, allowing herself to slacken against him, though she could not, by any means, rest.

  “That’s it,” he said, bending to whisper his approval into her ear.

  Page tried to ignore the shudder that swept down her spine at the solicitous tone of his voice.

  “You havena spoken all the morn,” he said low, and his voice was like warm silk against her face, soft and soothing. She reminded herself that he was a faithless Scotsman, not some overly attentive beau who cared for her well-being. “I dinna mean to aggrieve you, lass.”

  And still her heart hammered. “Did you not?” she asked, hiding her confusion behind anger.

  His chest expanded with another sigh. He released it, and it blew across the pate of her head. The feel of it gave her gooseflesh. He didn’t answer.

  Page wasn’t about to let him lapse into silence so easily now. He’d provoked her well enough. “What, prithee, did you mean to do? And what would you have me do? Laugh hysterically because I’ve been abducted by a barbarian Scotsman? Converse with you over the wonders of Christendom? I hardly think so!”

  His chuckle surprised her. Low and rich, it rumbled against her back. “You’re a saucy wee wench, for certain.”

  Page bristled. “I’m no wee wench—and aye, so I’ve been told! Do not think I mean to apologize for it, either!”

  “Temper, temper,” he reproved, clucking his tongue at her. “Tell me, then, lass... what wonders might we converse over were ye amenable to conversing?”

  “Hah!” Page exclaimed. “With you? I should think I would never be amenable—and cease, if you will, to call me lass! It...” Confused her. “Disturbs me,” she said petulantly.

  He chuckled again, flustering her all the more, and then bent closer to whisper in her ear. “Verra well, lass, then tell me what ye would have me call you instead.”

  Her nerves were near to shattering. “Naught!” She shrugged away, moving as far forward as was physically possible. Only then did she realize he hadn’t been holding her any longer. How long now since he’d released her? How could she not have noticed? Sweet Jesu, had she lain against him contentedly all this time? “I would have you call me naught!” she spat. “God’s truth, I would have you cease to speak to me at all!”

  “Rest, then, and I willna trouble ye any further, lass.”

  “Sweet Jesu! I’ve no wish to rest!”

  “Then you do wish to converse?”

  Page thought she could hear a smile in his voice. She jerked her head about to catch his smug expression and said, “I do not!”

  “Och, lass, make up your mind,” he said, and Page clenched her teeth and tried to convince herself not to slap the arrogant smile from his face.

  “I asked you not to—”

  “I know, wench. Ye dinna wish for me to call you ‘lass, but you havena said what then I should call—”

  “My name is none of your concern!” she assured.

  He smiled then, flashing perfect white teeth. “Verra well, lass. If you will, then.”

  “Mary!” she lied, trying not to note the boyish dimple that had appeared, as well. “
My name is Mary!” She turned around, averting her gaze, more than a little rattled by his too easy manner.

  Wasn’t her abductor supposed to be cruel with his words rather than winning? Why should he care over her comforts, or her preferences, for that matter? “Are you pleased now?” she asked him. “You can bloody well call me Mary!”

  chapter 7

  Of all the names she might have spouted, Mairi was the last one he expected. He’d been unprepared for the sound of it upon her lips.

  Bloody hell, nothing else she might have said could have spurred him into silence more swiftly. He’d been determined to melt the icy walls surrounding her, win her over to his people. The last thing they needed was a bitter wench to burden them. They’d already had one of those to contend with.

  Mairi.

  Even these six years later, they were all still reeling with the legacy she’d left them.

  What would he tell Malcom on the day his son should ask of his mother’s death?

  He didn’t know. But Iain wasn’t certain he could ever speak of it, for the memory of that morning tormented him more than anything in his life. He could scarce think of that high window without suffering a sweat and his knees turning as soft as boiled meal.

  His wife had loathed him so much.

  Even Malcom hadn’t been enough to keep her.

  Sweat beaded upon his forehead. He closed his eyes, warding away the image of her standing before the high window. The vision passed before his eyes in a flash of white-hot pain.

  Mairi.

  He wasn’t certain he could call the lass by that name. He couldn’t even bear to think of her as such. The very thought of the name wrenched at his gut.

  He opened his eyes and sought out his son, focusing upon the future, not the past. The sight of Malcom, his soft golden hair shining under the sun, laughing and talking with his cousin, comforted Iain at once. He allowed the issue of her name to pass for now, and lapsed into silence along with her, more than aware of the glances he was receiving from his men.