Well, who would protect her from the MacKinnon? she wondered irritably.
Aye, she’d already determined that he’d not harm her, but what of her heart, and her soul, and her body?
She was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t comprehend, though she knew it was a dangerous longing. And still she couldn’t stop herself from yearning.
For what? The sweet promise of his whisper? The gentle touch of his hand?
His love? she thought with self-disdain.
Jesu, but it was growing more and more difficult to keep her eyes from wandering in his direction.
Particularly so given his meager state of dress.
The short tunic and wayward breacan exposed a sinfully bare thigh as he rode. And he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the wind every so oft lifted his blanket for a tantalizing glimpse of the man beneath. Jesu, but she tried not to look—she truly did—but she could scarce keep herself from it, for the beauty of the man seduced her, stole her breath away.
Her heart quickened, for she was once again accosted by the image of them lying together upon his breacan... the way he’d taken her hand...
She swallowed at the memory, her throat feeling suddenly too raw.
Lord! She was a woman, was she not? No child. Why did every need have to be emotional? Mayhap it wasn’t love that drew her, after all. Why couldn’t it simply be that she wanted the things she knew instinctively he could give her as a man? Though she was innocent in the ways of men and women, she was no half-wit, by God! She was wholly aware of the way he made her feel... bold and breathless... achy.
It was a physical thing, for certain.
Aye, she wanted his arms about her. What was so wrong with that? Certainly she wasn’t the only woman who had been so inclined? Why was it that a man could want these things but a woman could not?
Why was it that a woman’s needs were to be masked by such a thing called love? Love was certainly overrated, she thought, and she wasn’t even sure it existed.
So then, if there was no such thing as love... wasn’t the mask a lie? Wasn’t it truly a weakness to fall back upon this myth? Wasn’t it better to be honest with oneself and admit the truth of the matter—that it was lust, instead?
Aye, she truly thought so... and though the MacKinnon might be her enemy, she was drawn to him in the way a man attracts a woman. Nothing more. Lust was uncontrollable, was it not? It was a primal thing that lured and seized one’s senses. And every waking thought. That’s what men claimed, at any rate. She’d heard more than a few faithless husbands tell their wives just so.
She stole a glance at the MacKinnon, just as the wind whipped, lifting his breacan and tunic. Her breath caught, and her body betrayed her then. Her heart began to thump against her ribs.
Like warm spiced mead, heat slid through her, burning her flesh, and making her mouth go drier than sun-dried leather. The movement of the horse between her thighs quickened her breath, even as the sight of the MacKinnon awakened her body to life. Her hand fluttered to her throat, and then slid down the front of her gown; she paused at her breast, marveling at the sensations that stirred there.
Sweet Jesu. He was the only man who had ever made her feel...
She closed her eyes and lifted her hand, caressing the bared flesh at her throat, imagining his hand there instead...
He was the first man ever to have awakened her body to life... the first whose touch she’d ever craved... the first man who’d ever wanted her...
Aye, and she wanted him to want her, but it wasn’t his love she yearned for, she told herself. She was no dog to go begging for affection, but a woman whose body was not made of cold steel.
She wanted him, she admitted wantonly.
And she wanted him to want her.
Her enemy.
Her eyes flew open, and her breath caught as she looked about anxiously, praying no one had spied her at her wicked musings. Her cheeks flamed with mortification.
Her gaze settled upon the man who had so easily and without trying invaded her every thought.
He was wholly unaware of her.
He rode with his son, oblivious to the reactions of Page’s treacherous body. Her brows drew together, and she nibbled the inside of her lip. What a fool she was!
He didn’t want her, she berated herself.
Whatever had possessed her to believe him when he’d said he did? The man riding before her could have any woman he so chose. And Page was no man’s choice.
Not even her own father’s.
Which brought her to wonder .. . whatever had Broc meant when he’d said that the MacKinnon felt compelled to save her from her da? She stole a glance at the behemoth riding beside her. But he willna be rid o’ ye so easily, I swear by the stone, she heard him say to her again, and she blinked. Her father? Her father wouldn’t be rid of her so easily? A feeling of unease sidled through her.
The one thing she knew for certain was that somehow, she needed to find a way back home.
She was desperate to find a way to escape.
Iain placed a hand to his son’s shoulder, squeezing gently, with a desperation that belied the reassurance of his touch. “Try to remember, Malcom...”
For a long instant there was silence between them, as Malcom tried desperately to do as was bade of him. “I canna, da,” he answered unhappily. “I only remember wakin’ up.” His son peered up at him, and his little brows were drawn together in a frown.
“Wi’ David?”
His answer was a soft child’s murmur.
“Weel, then, son, dinna fash yourself. ‘Tis no failing o’ yours that you canna remember.”
Malcom nodded, and Iain asked, “They didna hurt you, did they?”
Malcom shook his head.
“Guid,” Iain said. If he discovered elsewise, he’d have to turn his mount about and strangle the first Sassenach neck he encountered. “Tell me one more time, son... and I willna trouble you with it for a while more... Tell me exactly what you remember about that night.”
“I only remember eating... and then I was sleepy,” he said.
“Who was there eating wi’ ye, d’ ye remember that much?”
“Ummm... auld Angus?”
He sounded so uncertain that Iain had to wonder how much of the sleeping drog they’d given him. Christ, but ’twas a wonder they’d not killed him! His anger mounted once again, though no one could have suspected by the ease of his posture. Only the muscle ticking at his jaw, as he listened to his son, gave testament to his incredible fury. “I know aboot Angus... Anyone else, son?”
“Maggie,” Malcom declared. “And Glenna— and Broc.”
Most every man had been with Iain, save for Angus and Broc, he reflected. And Lagan.
But Lagan had been brawling again with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. His cousin had long ago taken a liking to the dun- haired lass, but MacLean had sworn he’d never trust another of his lasses to MacKinnon men. Iain couldn’t say as he blamed the man.
Mairi’s death had not been by his own hands, but the fault lay still upon his shoulders. He should have known. He should have stopped her somehow. And he might have, had he not been holding their son.
Malcom. He’d long grieved for Malcom, for she’d abandoned him as surely as though she’d slapped his face and then walked away. Christ, but he loathed her for that.
And for leaving him with her blood upon his hands.
As far as MacLean was concerned, Iain was her murderer, for he had been the last to see her alive and he had been the one at the window, while his daughter’s body lay sprawled upon the jagged rocks below. Any chance for peace had been crushed along with her that day.
In truth, looking at it through MacLean’s eyes, it didn’t matter much whether Iain had pushed her from that window, or whether he’d merely driven her to it. He was responsible either way, and were Iain in MacLean’s shoes, he didn’t think he’d give another daughter to settle any goddamned feud.
God help him, even
to his own mind, he was guilty. Somehow, he’d failed Mairi. He didn’t know what it was he’d done to drive her out from that tower window, but he must have done something.
Something.
He hadn’t loved her precisely. She’d been much too reserved with her own affections for that, but he’d cared for her nonetheless. And he’d wanted to love her. There just hadn’t been enough time.
What had he done to drive her from that window?
In the beginning, the need to know had driven him near mad. It tormented him still. He must have done something, but he couldn’t recall ever treating her unkindly. God’s truth, but he’d set out to woo her, though he’d failed miserably. To this day, the image of her standing before the tower window haunted him—hair mussed, eyes wild, and that slight smile that made the hairs upon his nape stand on end even after all this time.
He shuddered, willing away the graven image, and asked his son, “And you dinna recall going to bed? Or waking in the night?”
“Nay, da,” Malcom answered dejectedly. “I dinna recall.”
Iain ruffled his hair. “Dinna worry yourself aboot it then.”
From what Maggie had told him, Malcom had fallen asleep at table, over his haggis—not surprising when the boy would and did do anything to keep from having to eat his pudding. Maggie had tried to wake him, and upon finding him truly asleep, had carried him to his bed. Feeling drowsed herself, she’d never made it out of the room. She’d dozed while recounting him a story, and had slept sitting beside the bed, her head pillowed within her arms. It was only in the morn, after she’d passed auld Angus still asleep at table, slumped over his plate, that she’d begun to suspect. Glenna had fallen asleep in the kitchen, Malcom was nowhere to be found, and no one had witnessed a bloody thing. What Iain wanted to know... almost as much as who... was how in God’s name they’d managed to drog the entire household with no one the wiser.
He damned well intended to find out.
It occurred to him suddenly that he couldn’t call Page Maggie. Och, but two Maggies in one household would be one too many. He’d have to think of another name. He was certain she couldn’t be enamored of Page, but how to broach the issue without offending her... Or mayhap he wouldn’t broach it at all, he’d simply call her by whatever new name he decided upon. If she objected, he would simply have to set about finding her another, until he found one she preferred.
When had he made the decision to keep her? he wondered.
Christ only knew, he didn’t need the battle of wills—nor was she a beast of burden for her fate to be decided upon so easily, and yet those were precisely the reasons he wasn’t about to let her go. Somehow, it had become crucial to him that she not be hurt any more than he was certain she was hurt already. And if she discovered her father didn’t want her...
He frowned. She still harbored hope that he would come after her—bastard! He spied it upon her face, and in the way she turned so often to peer behind. As though looking for him. Iain almost wished the whoreson would pursue them, so she wouldn’t be disappointed.
So that he might cast his blade into the bastard’s stone-cold heart.
He’d thought to have the opportunity when they’d found Ranald’s body, but Iain had seen no sign of FitzSimon’s party since then. In truth, he hadn’t even then, save for the evidence of Ranald’s body.
If not FitzSimon, who had gotten to Ranald?
Who would have motive?
The possibility that one of his own might be responsible made his gut turn. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. Something lay at the edge of his thoughts, something, though he could not capture it. Every time he came close, he heard the ghost of the lass’ song in his ears.
Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee lammie...
Christ, where had he heard the lay before? Whose voice was it that haunted him?
The memory escaped him.
On the other hand, he was intensely aware of the woman riding at his flank—of every glance she gave him, every move she made. And aye, he was aware, too, that she was dropping the scraps. He’d spied her at her mischief just about the time Broc had. Iain hadn’t confronted her because the matter he’d been discussing with Malcom had been more important. And just in case she managed an escape, he fully intended to go back after them tonight—gather just enough to thwart her. Her scheme wasn’t going to help her any at all.
And he intended to discover what Broc was up to. The lad was the last person Iain might have suspected of recreancy, but the evidence was there before him. Iain had thought at first that Broc meant to confront her, but even after their heated discourse, the lass continued to drop her scraps. Whatever his reason, Broc was aiding her. That much was plain to see.
Conspicuous as well were her continued glances toward him. The yearning reflected within the depths of those overwise brown eyes squeezed at his heart. It wasn’t Iain she coveted, he thought, but the affection between Malcom and himself. He sensed that even as he sensed the heat of her gaze upon him, and God, he felt the overwhelming desire to take her into his arms, soothe away her pain.
Emotions warred within him.
Bloody hell, but if she didn’t cease to look at him with such obvious longing, he wasn’t certain he was going to be able to restrain himself. He was only a man, after all, a man too long without a woman. It was becoming more and more difficult to recall himself to the fact that it wasn’t him she desired, but something else he couldn’t give her. He didn’t have it in him to give. Once he had thought to open his heart; now it was sealed tighter than a tomb.
And still she drew him.
She was lovely, aye, but there was something more.
It’d been a long time since he’d felt so utterly distracted by a woman. Not even Mairi had affected him so. His wife had been beautiful, but her heart had been poisoned against him. Loving her had been a duty. Wanting her had been unthinkable.
But he wanted FitzSimon’s daughter.
His warning to her last night had not solely been to distract her, and the effect her glances were having upon him was painfully physical. His body craved the things she silently asked of him. Christ, but he might have been blind and still sensed her presence.
Like a man thirsting for water, and maddened by its scent upon the air.
He was on edge.
He turned to find her staring, and his blood began to simmer. Brazen thing that she was, she held his gaze, her dark eyes smoldering, reflecting a carnal knowledge he knew she couldn’t possibly possess... or could she?
The possibility aroused him, evoked new images. His heartbeat quickened.
Or was it his own reflection he saw mirrored there in the fathomless depths of her eyes, his own dark yearnings?
Suddenly her eyes sparkled with challenge, or mayhap defiance, and she snapped the reins, urging Ranald’s mount toward him. Iain turned away, recognizing the battle to come, knowing it would be near impossible to watch her approach, anticipate her, and still keep his reason when she confronted him.
God’s truth, but for someone who was supposed to be a hapless hostage, she acted more like a haughty queen, snapping rebukes to Broc, and sending daggers with those lovely eyes. Mostly in his direction and Iain could scarce keep from grinning at the thought.
And then he sighed, for those beautiful, wide brown eyes of hers were too expressive for her own good.
chapter 16
It was the look upon his face that provoked Page—that arrogant twist of his lips that made her feel as though he mocked her somehow.
What could he possibly know? The cur! Certainly not that she was dropping the scraps of cloth—else he would have put an end to it long ere now.
And lest he be a sorcerer, nor could he possibly have divined her wicked thoughts. They were hers, and hers alone to contend with, and if her cheeks were high with color, ’twas simply because the wretched man had driven them forward, ever forward, never stopping, never resting. She was weary. And she had to do the necessary, besides—since
after noon.
Page hadn’t complained even the first time, determined as she was not to speak to a one of them. She’d long determined that Broc was a flea-bitten moron! Scarce had he spoken a kind word to her all day, and his only saving grace was that he fiercely loved his little Merry Bells. Jesu, but she’d be willing to wager he even slept with the beast—wouldn’t doubt that it was where he’d managed to catch his fleas. And she was nearly certain he had them now.
Just to be certain she didn’t fall heir to a few, she edged her mount away from him, and tried not to be overly amused when he bragged to Kerwyn about the animal’s keen intellect. Kerwyn, for his part, ignored her. He listened to Broc’s boasts with half an ear, and an enduring smile that suggested he’d heard the tales before.
Then there was Angus. Angus was an addle-pated old fool, staring at her as he did so oft—as though she were some confounded riddle to be deciphered. God’s truth, but he was unsettling her—nigh as much as his laird. Her only comfort lay in the fact that he obviously thought the MacKinnon all the more daft, for the looks he cast in Iain’s direction were decidedly bemused.
And the MacKinnon... She’d already determined how he made her feel.
Confused.
Hopeful.
Titillated.
And she’d be hanged before she’d let him know it!
Her patience at an end, she snapped the reins, spurring poor Ranald’s mount toward the lead rider. She headed straight toward the MacKinnon, cursing the circle of mounts that enclosed her. Be damned if they were going to keep her from speaking her mind! Determined to have words with her tormentor, she forced her way through the band of Scotsmen, ignoring the scores of curses and warnings that flew at her back.
No one stopped her, and in less than a moment, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had managed to plague most every second of every waking thought.
The MacKinnon's Bride Page 13