She was his now.
He’d made it so.
And he vowed, upon his life, that he’d never let her rue this day.
While the rest of them had waited about like idiots, fiddling their fingers, the two of them had been rut tin’.
Damn but it galled.
If he’d not witnessed the sight of them together with his own eyes, he’d never have believed it.
When Iain should have beaten the impertinent bitch, he returns, instead, cradling her within his arms while she sleeps like a wee bairn. After the trouble she’d stirred, he’d half expected, half hoped, his brother would send her flying back to her father. At the very minimum, that their long absence meant he’d taken it upon himself to return her to Balfour, dumping her like so much offal into the castle ditch.
It was no more than she deserved.
Instead, Iain had been picking crocus blossoms for the Sassenach slut. She clutched one still within her fist whilst she slept.
Damn, but naught was going as planned—naught at all! By this time, he’d hoped to be rid of Iain’s whelp once and for all. And the wench—she never should have become a problem to begin with—rot Iain and his bleeding heart!
He sat, watching Kerwyn and Dougal load Ranald’s still-soaked body upon the horse he’d intended for Malcom, and could feel his face burn with impotent rage. They’d had to fish the poor bastard out of the loch and then rewrap him, and only now were strapping him on again. It seemed the lass was to go with Iain, Malcom with auld Angus, and he was helpless to do anything but stand and watch and seethe. He’d hoped Page and Malcom might ride together.
He loathed feeling this way—helpless—despised Iain’s bloody guts for it, too. Bastard! Just like his father, he was! Thinking himself so noble for the sacrifices he made.
Iain’s da, the gaddamn bastard, had sacrificed even him—without so much as a backward thought.
Well... he intended to right the wrong soon enough—rid himself first of Malcom, then of Iain, and then lead the clan himself.
It was his right after having suffered in silence all these years.
Damn Iain’s sire for a selfish old fool! Had the old man truly expected that his deceit would never be discovered? Had he anticipated that Lagan would simply accept the lie so glibly when the truth was at last made known? That he’d forget he’d been left, as a result of his father’s murder and the ultimate deception, without a mother, or a father?
Foolhardy old man. In trying to save his son from the repulsive truth—that his wife had dared to love another man, a MacLean at that—he’d managed to strip Lagan of every birthright.
Aye, for while Iain lamented never having known the mother who had once suckled him at her breast, Lagan had truly never known her at all. Christ, but he had not even the right to grieve for her openly. He had only snatches of her memory from Glenna, for not even Glenna would speak of the sister she’d lost so shamefully—not even to the son she’d died giving birth to.
Iain, at least, had known her for those two years—two years Lagan might have plucked out his eyes to have had the same luxury—and his brother had not the right to grieve.
Whether he recalled her or nay.
Poor wretched Iain... his father’s revered son... While Iain had been assiduously trained to take the lead of his clan... Lagan had been naught more than a discarded kinsman.
How he’d envied the old laird’s attentions to his son. How he’d craved it. Never knowing...
Christ, but he’d not even been told of his father until he’d been too old to feel anything more than bitterness. That was all he’d ever been told—that his father had been a deceiving MacLean, no more—and never once had the MacLeans acknowledged him.
Never once.
It had been Glenna, the aunt he’d once called mother, who had revealed the connivance after all. Her own guilt had been great—and rightly so! She should never have contrived to deprive him of his rightful life.
Damn them all, for he’d been robbed by clansmen he’d loved—clansmen who’d favored the old laird more than they had the lonely child he had been. Every last MacKinnon had conspired to keep the dirty secret of his birth. None of them had come forth, not a one!
And now those who would recall were mostly dead, but for Glenna and a scarce few others. They too would pay. And then... when the guilty were gone from his sight, he could learn at last to live—never forgive, but to put the past behind him once and for all.
The jest was upon old MacKinnon—might he turn in his grave—for in trying to spare his goddamned son, Iain, he’d burdened him with a lifetime of guilt over his mother’s death. Stupid bastard, for it had been his own birth that had killed her, not his half brother’s. And yet Iain had lived every day of his miserable life thinking he’d been the one to rob their mother of her last breath of life. Let him think so—bloody bastard—he could take his bloody guilt to the grave, for all he cared—that, along with the guilt he suffered over Mairi’s death. Damn, but he’d hoped she would die at her childbed. He’d wanted her to so badly—had tried so hard to make it come to pass.
Instead, she’d tossed herself from the accursed window, and had stolen his chance with her youngest sister. Stupid bitch. His dire warnings against Iain had been meant to frighten her, make her life miserable, not send her out upon a window ledge.
And yet... he had to admit... she’d succeeded in wounding the whoreson in a way that might never have been possible elsewise, for Iain had not once, since Mairi’s death, taken a woman to his bed.
Until now.
He smiled, for this was one more way to see the bastard bleed before he died.
His one dilemma now... to decide who should depart the world sooner... the son... or the lover.
Mayhap both.
Together.
Long after Page awoke from her sated slumber, she clung to the pretense of sleep, not quite able to face Iain.
Nor could she deal with the accusations from his men as Iain returned with her in his arms. She overheard their grievances, their voiced indignation over her foul treatment of poor Ranald, and felt more than a twinge of guilt over the havoc she’d wreaked once more. Certainly she’d not meant to dump the cadaver in the lake! It had been an accident, no more. But her heart had filled with joy to hear Iain MacKinnon become her champion. He’d commanded them all to silence, and with his unsolicited defense, a gladness had flowered in her heart.
If the truth be known, more than aught else, she didn’t wish to leave the refuge of his arms as yet. He held her like a babe, his strong arms enfolding her within an embrace that felt more like Heaven than even those puffy white clouds could possibly.
Nay... she didn’t want to wake... wanted to cling to him always.
To this illusion of love.
She felt cherished by the way he held her, the way he stroked the hair from her face. But it was an illusion, no more. She understood that well enough—just as she understood that once she opened her eyes, she would no more be his lover, but his hostage once again.
Oh, but how wonderful it had been for the time.
She would cherish the memory of their loving deep in her heart, remember every wonderful instant... and on those evenings when she stared out from her chamber window... no more would she wish for things that had never been, could never be... She would carefully unwrap the crocus she held in her hand. Though it might be faded and brittle with age, she would see it bright and yellow and kissed by the dew. She would see his face—would feel the great sweep of emotion that had twisted her heart and made a mockery of her avowal that she felt mere lust for him. Aye, for in that moment, she had loved him fiercely. In that magical instant she had wanted to stay with him always.
Aye, and she’d wanted him to love her.
Her throat thickened with overwhelming emotion when she recalled the way he’d plucked the bloom and placed it within her hand. It was a simple gesture, one he might have performed a thousand times, for a thousand different lovers... but thi
s one had been for her and her alone.
She wanted to weep, but didn’t dare, lest he discover her awake.
The trail they were following veered upward, a steeper incline than any they’d traveled as yet, and Page sighed contentedly as she was forced closer to the man who would ever after haunt her dreams.
As far as she could tell, it was late afternoon.
Through the haze of her lashes, she could spy ribbons of rose-red stretching across a faded blue sky. The sun bathed the heathered hills in a buttery light, like a gentle mother kissing all it touched before snuffing its light.
When the path turned steeper yet, Page dared to cling to her dubious savior, taking comfort in his strength to keep her safe. Her hand at his back took great pleasure in exploring the sinew of his flesh, the broadness of his back, her pretense of slumber affording her a boldness she would never have dared elsewise.
He was a marvelous exemplar of a man, every part of him well formed. She sighed at the memory of him kneeling unclothed before her, magnificent and primeval.
The way he’d gazed at her; no one had ever looked at her just so.
His eyes... they were the sort to make a woman weak when they fell upon her in full measure. Something flittered down deep within her belly with scarce the memory of his smoldering gaze. Arrogantly confident, they appraised like one who knew what he wanted and knew instinctively how to get it. They probed for secrets, used them to ravage the heart... and the body.
She shivered at the thought.
Of his hands upon her...
And his lips... lips that promised unspeakable things... promises kept with such great relish. Jesu, but he’d taken immense pleasure, judging by the mischievous turn of his lips, in all that he’d done to her. He’d made love to her again with that exquisite mouth, taking more pleasure in the endeavor than it seemed possible a man could take in such a thing.
Unable to contain it, she gave a sleepy little moan, and turned to bury her face against his chest. But it was a mistake, she realized at once, for she breathed in the scent of him, and was wholly undone by it.
Jesu, but she wanted to stay this way forever.
But forever was an impossibility, and the moment would be over too soon. Hot tears slipped from her lashes, though she told herself they were absurd.
How could she love a man she scarcely knew? Jesu, but she thought she did.
How could she have given herself so freely? Loved him back without compunction?
Not love. Anything but love.
Lust, she tried to convince herself. It was lust, simple and true.
So, then, why did the sting of tears persist?
And why did her heart feel suddenly so heavy as though it were weighted with stone?
Stiffening at the delicate brush of fingers across his back, Iain peered down, trying to determine whether Page slept or nay.
It was a lover’s caress. A sleepy lover’s caress that stirred his senses and started his pulse to pounding. He thought she might have awakened, but she didn’t open her eyes.
No matter, he took pleasure in holding her so. She was so light, delicate within his arms, fragile even—despite the invulnerable facade she put forth. She appeared at first sight to be as sturdy as the stone walls her father had erected about his keep, but remove a single brick, and her walls came toppling down.
She’d been exhausted after he’d loved her so thoroughly, so much so that she’d fallen asleep within his arms as he’d stroked the damp wisps of hair back from her face. Och, but this he relished more than he should... the trust she’d placed in him to so easily fall asleep within his embrace.
It was a simple show of faith, one that endeared her to him more readily than even her enduring nature. It was something he’d never had from Mairi. Trust. Something he would never have dared even hope for.
Instead, his wife had withdrawn from their bed to that infernal window, where she’d stood staring into the night. He’d listened to her weeping, and watched her quiet revulsion for the act of love they had committed, and his heart had wept pure blood.
Once she’d conceived, he’d never touched her again—nor had she desired him to by the way she so studiously avoided him. She’d carried his bairn without sharing a single whisper of him, had mourned every moment she’d nurtured his babe within her womb, as though it were an abomination of her being.
His son had been magnificent.
Aye, Malcom was everything he’d ever hoped for in a son; free of spirit and unafraid to love. It was something Iain envied of him.
Page... he smiled at the memory of her halting acceptance of the name he’d chosen for her: Suisan. It gave him pleasure to think of her so. Her response to him... her openhearted acceptance of his loving—not mere acquiescence—was like a balm for his soul.
God, but it made him dream again, opened doors in his heart he’d never known were closed.
She wiggled away from him slightly and he reached out, never touching, but tracing the out line of her belly with his palm, imagining his babe growing there. It gave him a fierce pleasure. He’d withdrawn each time before planting his seed within her body, but couldn’t keep himself from imagining her belly swollen with his bairn.
He wanted to do it again... so badly—love her, aye, but more than that, to give her his child. He’d thought his chances were all gone. All the things he’d wanted to do with Mairi and never could... place his hand to her belly, feel the first stirring of life from their bairn... touch his cheek and lips to her body where it nurtured their babe... lay her naked upon his bed each morn and every night to study the glorious changes in her body.
All those things he suddenly found himself wanting with the woman lying so serenely within his arms.
It made his heart full with joy and alight with anticipation merely to think of it.
Damn, but he had to chuckle at the look auld Angus had given him when he’d come bearing her back to camp—a mixture of outright indignation and reluctant approval. The old man had been after him long enough to get himself a woman, but Iain thought he might have favored one a little less vexing. He chuckled softly, for in truth, he might have preferred one a little less troublesome, as well.
The little termagant.
Och, but the truth was, he loved her spirit, including her tempers, for they were evidence that her soul burned with life. No quiet, seething, mourning woman was she. Nay, she was passion incarnate, feeling everything, be it anger, or lust—and love?—to its fullest degree.
His cousin, on the contrary, had been wholly disapproving, if the look upon his face was any indication. Too bad. Iain had long since abided by his own decisions, and it was a lifetime too late for Lagan to insinuate himself upon them. His cousin would simply have to learn to live with the Sassenach spitfire in their midst—as would the rest of them, for he intended to keep her.
As for himself, becoming used to her presence was an undertaking he suspected he was going to wholly enjoy.
Thoughts of his cousin brought a pensive wrinkle to his brow.
Lagan had been acting strangely of late, brooding incessantly. Ever since his quarrel with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. Mayhap he should talk to the MacLean himself—much as he was loath to—for Lagan’s sake. Mayhap there was something he could do, as yet?
And mayhap not; auld MacLean loathed the hell out of him, for certain. His mediation was more like to drive the wedge more firmly betwixt them.
“Da! Da!”
Malcom’s shrill cry of alarm pierced his thoughts like the blow of an ax. He pivoted about, heart lurching, to find his son unharmed, but pointing wildly.
“Ranald’s gettin’ away!” Malcom shouted. “Ranald’s gettin’ away!”
Iain’s brows drew together at his son’s hue and cry. How the hell could Ranald possibly do that, dead as the bastard was. Following the direction of Malcom’s pointed finger, he caught sight of the crisis that held his son’s concern. Ranald’s body had somehow snapped free of its bindings—n
ot the bindings, he realized, upon closer inspection. The harness had snapped, and while Ranald was tethered still, the saddle was slipping free. Even as he fully absorbed Ranald’s predicament, Ranald broke free suddenly, and began tumbling down the steep hillside, losing the saddle after the first violent turns. The tartan about him unraveled with every subsequent roll.
“Christ!” he muttered. Damn, but Ranald must have earned himself one hell of a curse during his lifetime. Iain doubted a dead man had ever had such bloody misfortune!
A few of his men vaulted from their saddles at once, and for the second time in the space of a day, went in pursuit of Ranald’s errant body.
Iain cursed roundly as he peered down, frowning, into Page’s blinking eyes.
She was awake, staring up at him. “I didn’t do it!” she swore at once.
chapter 21
There wasn’t a grimace-free expression amongst the faces staring down at Ranald’s body. Between the wolves, the plunge into the lake, his wet blankets, and the roll down the hill, Ranald was, without a doubt, the worse for his wear.
Page stood silently amongst the gathered, her face screwing in revulsion at the sight of the body lying so twisted before them. Her guilt was tremendous, for she knew she shared some measure of blame for the poor man’s misfortune. Lord, but her father had always said she could tax a dead man’s soul, and it seemed he was certainly correct, for this particular dead man was about as taxed as a soul could be.
Even so, she simply wasn’t about to take all the blame! She certain hadn’t killed the man to begin with— neither had she set the wolves against him. She had, however, dumped him into the lake during her escape. Of a certainty his wet blankets hadn’t done his appearance any service. God’s truth, he’d not been the most comely fellow she’d ever set eyes upon to begin with, but now he was fairly grotesque. She wrinkled her nose and turned away. Jesu, but it was a good thing she had such a strong fortitude.
“I’ll no’ be puttin’ him on my horse!” Dougal interjected suddenly, his tone fraught with disgust, his expression revealing as much.
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