“Who the bluidy hell said you could open that gaddamned window?” he demanded.
Page shook her head, unable to speak. She didn’t know this side of him. Never once had he looked at her so cruelly, or spoken so harshly. She couldn’t even begin to comprehend what she could have done to provoke him to such an extreme—not when she’d worked so incessantly at it before and had never even managed to prick his temper at all! God’s truth, she’d been more in danger of inspiring his laughter than she ever had his fury!
Reasoning that he was not lucid this instant, she yielded, “I’m sorry. I... I didn’t know... I didn’t realize... Iain?”
Strange how, though she knew the lengths to which her father would go, she’d always stood her ground with him. With Iain, she was certain he’d never harm her—ever—and yet she felt the need to conciliate.
Still, she wasn’t about to come anywhere near him until the cloud of rage cleared from his eyes!
It was the look upon her face that recalled Iain to himself.
She crouched upon his bed, her eyes watching him with that same intensely guarded look she’d given him that first night he’d met her. It was wariness, not hatred he saw there.
Not revulsion.
He blinked, focusing.
Christ, it was not Mairi at the window... not Mairi shrinking from him at the far end of the bed.
And still he couldn’t help but shudder at the look in her eyes. At the black rage in his heart. So many years he’d kept the emotions buried. Damn, but he wasn’t simply angry with Mairi for leaving their son—he despised her for it! Unwilling to betray his emotions, Iain turned his back to Page and sat upon the bed, his body tense and trembling with restraint.
He sat for what seemed an eternity, staring at the open window.
Blue skies for as far as the eye could behold.
Malcom would have his seventh winter soon.
He looked about him, seeing his chamber for the first time in so many years... He’d always loathed this room. Even before Mairi... he had suffered the dreams. Her death had only intensified them.
Only, this moment... there was something different about it, he thought... something bright and cheery. He’d seen it this way before... but the difference this instant... was the presence of the woman at his back.
He started when he felt her delicate tap upon his shoulder. His breath caught, but he didn’t turn to face her.
Christ, but he didn’t know what to say.
She likely thought him a madman.
And he could scarce blame her for it.
Page approached him warily, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and gasped when he started. He didn’t turn to look at her, seemed discomposed, and she wanted so much to ease his burdens... as he had done so often for her.
They were true, she realized, as she watched him stare so intently at the window—the rumors she’d heard about his wife.
And yet it was evident from his expression, from his reaction to the open window, that the memory pained him still. The connection had never occurred to her—the barred window and the death of his wife. It hadn’t occurred to her.
She swallowed, gathered her courage, and lifted her hand to his clenched jaw.
Her heart lurched when he leaned into it, allowing her to comfort him, and her breath caught when he turned to look at her suddenly.
His golden eyes were full of grief.
“‘Tis true, then? Your wife...”
For a long instant he didn’t reply. He removed his face from her hand, sitting rigid before her. “What?” he asked her, his whisper sounding pained. “Is it true that I murdered her? That I pushed her from the window?”
“Nay!” Page said with a rush of breath. She shook her head vehemently. “I never did think so!”
He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “She killed herself.” His voice broke. “Leapt... from that window.” He turned again to the wide, unobstructed opening, nodding.
Page experienced the most overwhelming desire to embrace him in that instant. She let herself, her heart quickening...
For the first time in her life, she didn’t worry about rejection... or her own tattered soul. She wrapped her arms about the man she loved. Though he stiffened at the unexpected show of compassion, he allowed it.
For a long instant they remained just so.
“It seemed she preferred death... to me,” he admitted softly, brokenly. “Her final words were... I want ye to know... the thought o’ ye ever touchin’ me again did this... You killed me, Iain.”
Page’s eyes stung with tears for the pain he’d endured at her hands.
“I hear those words still in my dreams.”
He shuddered at the confession, and her heart swelled with emotion. “I understand,” she said softly. “I do.” All this time she had never guessed he could be suffering the same as she—he with his good humor and his easy manner. Sweet Jesu, but she knew what it felt like to be unloved, to be cast aside.
They were the same.
He turned to look at her, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Aye,” he said, “I know ye do, lass.”
Not this time. She wasn’t going to allow him to divert her attention—for once, it wasn’t about her. “I’m stubborn and canny,” she told him. “Don’t worry about me.” And she smiled softly—for the first time in her life knowing of a certainty it was so.
He gave her a halfhearted smile, a slight turn of his lips.
Jesu, but she wanted to love him, wanted to nurture him—wanted him to know that not only would she gladly bear his touch, but she craved it fiercely! And in that instant she knew that she loved him truly. It had to be love, for she was unafraid to offer him all that she had to give—no matter that he had the power to wound her as did no other. Were he to rebuff her, she knew she would never recover.
Even so... not caring what his reaction to her brazenness might be... she bent to brush her lips against his whiskered jaw.
She kissed him softly, but with all the emotion she possessed in her heart.
She wanted him to cherish her, wanted him to make love to her, wanted to embrace him just so for the rest of her days.
He groaned, the guttural sound low and tormented, and Page felt her body quicken in response.
“Och, mo cridhe .. .fear mo ruin,” he whispered fiercely, turning and cupping her face within his callused hands. He closed his eyes and kissed her lips with a heart-jolting tenderness that stole her breath away.
Shuddering as he drew her down upon the bed and covered her body with his own, Page dared to pretend that his strangely muttered words were I love you.
chapter 30
It had been a long time since Iain had watched the sun set from his chamber window.
Even longer since he’d made love by the blush of its waning light. He’d forgotten how sweet it could be. Even more, he had never known the contentment that was possible in the sharing of two bodies.
Aye, he’d experienced those moments of gratification after a thorough loving... the physical sense of serenity. He’d wallowed in those pleasures like a lazy hound in the heat of a noonday sun. But he’d never imagined such a plane existed within the soul itself.
Exhausted from her day’s labor within his chamber, and their lovemaking, Page slept deeply beside him. Iain could scarce keep his hands to himself. He stroked her hair reverently, marveling that she slept so peacefully. He traced the outline of her body with his hands, afeared to touch her that she might wake, and yet unable to keep himself from appreciating the beauty of her form. Her long, lean limbs were tangled within the bedsheets. Her golden hair flowed down her back.
Like a wild woodland nymph, she lay bare beside him, naked and wholly revealed to his eyes—even her heart exposed to him this instant. Och, but he sensed her soul, and it was beauteous beyond imagination. Like a wary sculptor disrobing his long-guarded creation, she’d dared unveil herself to him with this loving, and his heart was filled near to brimming with emotion.
Emotions he couldn’t quite disentangle, so jumbled were they together in this twisted mass that was his heart.
And yet he knew they were significant, for never in his life had he felt such a buoyant sense of bonding. Christ, but if he could remain with her together... the way they were this instant... for the rest of their lives.. . Iain thought he might.
And so when the knock sounded upon the door, he was loath to respond. He lay there, muttering silent curses and willing the intruder to go away. The summons came once more, and he growled in disgust. Drawing the sheets up to cover Page from greedy eyes, he lifted himself from the bed as quietly as he was able, leaving, her to sleep while he answered the door.
“Broc,” he said, frowning as he opened the door to find the youth standing there. Naked though he was, he stood barring the view within.
“Laird!” Broc began, looking suddenly sheepish. “Pardon, but och! Seems ‘tis my duty today to be the bearer of bad tidings.”
Iain peered back over his shoulder at the sleeping form within his bed, and sighed. “What now?” he asked, returning his attention to a red- faced Broc.
“Well,” Broc began. “’Tis Glenna...”
“What about her?” Iain snapped.
“Well,” he began again, fidgeting under Iain’s impatient stare. “She didna see to the evenin’ meal... We went to find oot why... but she willna come oot o’ her croft.”
Iain’s face screwed. “Guid God, mon!” It wasn’t like Glenna, but she was certainly entitled to a moment’s peace. He needed only see how weary Page was to know that Glenna was like to be the same. “Ye’re grown men,” he admonished. “Dinna ye think she—”
“She’s weepin’,” Broc interjected before Iain could reprimand him further.
“Weepin’?”
Broc nodded. “Loudly. Ye can hear her clearly from outside the door. She says she doesna wish to talk to anybody, and willna open the door.”
“Where is Lagan?”
Broc shrugged. “We’ve looked everywhere, but it doesna really matter as she says she doesna wish to see him either.”
Iain was certain his surprise was manifest in his face. “She willna see her son?”
Broc shook his head. “It isna her way, I know..”
Iain’s brow furrowed. “Nay,” he agreed, deliberating over the facts. And it truly was not. Glenna had never been one to indulge in tempers. Not in all the years he’d known her. “Go on, then. I’ll be there anon.”
“Aye,” Broc said, and turned to go.
“But do not tell her I am coming,” Iain charged him.
The last thing he wished was for his stalwart aunt to prepare herself to face him—to put away her sorrows and her worries. If there was aught plaguing her, he would know it. After all that she’d been there for him, it was the least he could do for her.
He only wondered why it was that she would not see her son. When he thought on it, Lagan had been acting strange of late, as well, although Iain attributed the fact to his quarrel with auld mon MacLean, and then to Ranald’s death. And yet his cousin had been conspicuously absent at Ranald’s wake—neither had he offered to carry his longtime friend on the voyage home.
Had Iain not been so preoccupied with finding the traitor in their midst, he might have taken notice sooner. But something was amiss between them, and he would set it to rights at once.
Better late than not at all.
Time was his enemy now.
His final chance had presented itself, and he knew he must hie to take advantage.
Nightfall would come soon enough, and knowing Malcom would never disobey his da by wandering out to the Lover’s Bluff alone after twilight, he’d been forced to lie to the lad, telling him Iain awaited him upon the cliff top. The little whelp had gone without question.
But Malcom wouldn’t remain there long once he discovered his father was not there, and once the light began to fade he would come scurrying back as fast as his wee legs could take him.
Aye, he would need plan carefully now... in order for all to go as it should.
He hadn’t intended to do a bluidy thing this eve, but he’d been watching... and waiting.
’Twas a good thing, too, for Broc had, at long last, managed to draw Iain away from his Sassenach whore.
The tale he would tell was clear in his mind: As this was the first time Iain had left her completely unattended, she would naturally choose it to make her escape. And certainly she would wish to take the boy with her to appease her father.
Such a shame she’d not realized how abruptly the bluffs ended.
And of course, it would be much too dark for her to realize until she and Malcom had already plummeted over the cliff to the rocks below.
Such a bluidy rotten shame...
Of course, he knew the reality would scarce be so simple. He was fully aware he’d need use some... persuasion... to get the wench o’er the cliff.
Malcom would be another matter entirely. The brat would give him little enough trouble. He would simply lift him up by his stout little-boy arms and toss him o’er the ledge.
The very thought made him smile—not that he particularly cared to hear the lad’s screams, o’ course, or to hear him suffer and plead—but he was goddamned tired of looking at his bratty li’l face.
Och! And only imagine what a misfortune it would become... were Iain to find their bodies broken together upon the rocks below... the woman he loved—once more—and his beloved son...
Certainly it would be conceivable that he might find himself unable to cope. That was his hope. After all... what man wouldn’t find it unbearable to lose two women—both having flown to escape him—and then his only son?
In the end, wouldn’t it seem perfectly comprehensible that the three would tragically meet the same fate?
Such poetic justice!
Damn, but if Iain didn’t think of ending it so himself, Lagan would surely find a way to prescribe it.
And with that thought he quickened his pace, feeling a rush of excitement o’er the confrontation at hand. He had no notion how long Iain would be gone from his chamber, or to where he had gone—nor did he intend to linger for anyone to spy him stealing up the tower steps. He climbed them swiftly, his footsteps lithe and full of purpose. The light within the tower had faded with the gloaming, and though he noted the absence of lit torches, he didn’t take the time to consider why Glenna would be so slow to light them tonight.
Whatever the reason, it worked to his favor.
At long last, the waiting was over, and Lagan would finally see justice done—for the father he’d never known, the mother he’d never claimed, and the brother who had never even once looked into his eyes and spied the truth between them!
Page was uncertain what it was that woke her—some sound, something—but she opened her eyes to a room filled with the gray shades of twilight. Sated from the afternoon’s exertions, she stretched lazily, and turned, only to find a scream caught in her throat. Startled, she lurched up in the bed, jerking up the sheets to conceal herself.
The shadow came forward, revealing himself. “I wasna certain whether to wake ye, or nay.”
“What are you doing here?” Page demanded of him.
“‘Tis the lad,” Lagan told her. “Malcom. I wouldna trouble ye, lass, were he no’ so distressed.”
“Malcom?” Her brow furrowed with worry. Whatever ill will she felt for Lagan, she set aside for Malcom’s sake. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Lagan was silent a moment, his expression grave, and Page’s heart began to hammer with fear. “What is it?” Her gaze swept the room. “Where is Iain?”
“Well, you see...” Lagan knelt beside the bed, peering quickly at the door as he did so. And then his gaze returned to Page, and it seemed fraught with worry. “I canna tell his da... ‘Tis his da he’s afeared for.”
Page’s brows knit. “I do not understand.”
“Ye see...” He glanced up at the window and then back. In the fadin
g light his face was ashen with despair. “He overheard his da shouting at ye, lass... an’ he’s afeared ‘tis happened again.”
“What has happened again?” Page asked, following his gaze to the window once more. Her brows lifted in comprehension, and her gaze returned to Lagan. “Surely he cannot think his da would—”
“Och, lass, but he does!”
“Nay!” Page exclaimed in dismay. “However could he think such a thing!”
Lagan’s mouth twisted into a grimace. He peered down at the floor between them. “Secrets have their way o’ revealin’ themselves,” he told her.
Something about the tone of his voice sent a quiver racing down her spine. “Aye,” she agreed, and clutched the covers more firmly to her breast.
“If he could but see ye... then he would know he fears for naught. Will ye come?”
“Of course,” Page assured him. “Where is he?”
“He ran oot upon the bluff.”
Her gaze returned to the window. The rosy sky was fast turning to violet-gray shadows.
“I’ll go,” Page agreed. “Only give me a moment to dress.”
“Certainly,” he said, and stood. But he didn’t leave, nor did he turn away.
He stared a long instant at the sheet she had clutched to her bosom, and her face burned under his scrutiny. “Alone, please,” she urged him.
“Ye dinna mind Iain watching, do ye, though?” he snapped at her, and then seemed to snake himself free of his anger. “Verra well, I’ll be just beyond the door—come quickly,” he urged. “The hour grows late, and I wouldna have Malcom come to any harm.”
“Nor I,” Page assured him, shuddering at the sharp sway of his mood. She waited until he’d left her, closing the door in his wake, and then she scrambled out of the bed to dress.
It was evident Lagan did not like her—less did he seem to relish finding her in Iain’s bed. But then it was a mutual disgust, for neither did she care for him. Though it mattered not at all, for only Malcom mattered at this moment. She would have done anything for Iain’s son, and bearing Lagan’s company seemed a small enough price to repay Iain for all he’d done for her.
The MacKinnon's Bride Page 26