Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  His brows drew together, but his eyes glinted with unconcealed amusement. “You’re quite an impudent lass,” he said, with much too little heat, though he complied at once, removing his hand as she’d asked. “Tell me, lass, did your Da beat you oft?”

  Once again Page found herself aggrieved by his question. “Nay,” she said, but then she was forced to swallow the ache that rose like a goose egg up her throat. In truth, her father hadn’t cared enough even for that.

  She averted her gaze. “My father would never,” Page lied, rubbing at her wrists to ease the pain as blood returned to them.

  Naught could ease the one in her heart.

  “Mayhap he should have...”

  Page turned and glared at him.

  “Now let me see your hands.”

  It was a command, no matter how softly it was spoken, and Page bristled. “I can see to them myself, thank you much.”

  He sighed. “As you wish.”

  “Aye, ’tis my wish.”

  “You’re a fashious little thing,” the MacKinnon apprised her.

  “And you—” From the corner of her eye, she saw that he lifted his hands toward her once more, and Page flinched. So now it began!

  He moved quickly and Page was staggered to find that he meant only to place a dry gown over her head—her own gown, for the material was soft and worn with age and the scent was familiar.

  And toasty warm.

  He’d gone after her clothes—but not only had he retrieved it, he’d gone so far as to dry her garments by the fire.

  Shock filtered through her. Stunned, Page allowed him to draw the gown over her head, smooth it down, and like a poppet, she thrust out her arms to place within the sleeves.

  Her throat squeezed so hard that she could not speak. No one had ever elicited so many raw emotions from her as did this stranger. No one had ever looked after her this way. No one ever worried whether she was comfortable, or hungry, or lonely...

  Her heart wrenched, and once again, despair threatened to strangle her.

  He was treating her too kindly.

  And now he was staring at her strangely... as though he could read her thoughts. And then suddenly his expression shuttered and his brows drew together, and he demanded, “Place your hands at your back.”

  Page hardened her opinion of him at once and gave him a glare he was like never to forget.

  He cocked his head, and said, “Dinna make me force ye, lass...”

  He very well could, Page realized, and gritted her teeth. Still, she couldn’t quite make herself obey. “You’re a wretch, you realize?”

  He chuckled lightly, seemingly impervious to her wrath. The man wore good humor like an accursed suit of armor.

  “So I’ve been told,” he confessed, completely without apology. “Now, please, place your hands at your back so I can bind them.”

  “Why not leave them free?” she protested, although she now obeyed. Better to bide her time and choose her battles wisely.

  In fact, it would help to know how many men she must do battle with and she wondered if he would tell her. “What have you to fear of me?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “You have fifty men… or maybe more?”

  “Do I?” he answered noncommittally, peering up at her, his lips slightly crooked.

  Page frowned, because he knew very well what she was asking and he wouldn’t even give her such a meager concession.

  “As to your hands… I’m no’ so foolish as to allow ye to remain unfettered. I’ll be needin’ my sleep tonight and dinna have in mind to play nursemaid to a lass who canna seem to keep her mouth shut.”

  He reached behind her to bind her wrists together, behind the tree, but this time not quite so tightly. “I’m sorry Lagan was so harsh wi’ ye,” he said, testing the rope.

  Page cursed him for the small gesture, for it only served to confuse her a little more.

  She decided to ignore his apology—and his gesture, as well. “Surely you cannot expect me to sleep this way?”

  “Unfortunately—” He met her gaze. “—some things canna be helped.” He proceeded, then, to adjust her gown so that her legs were perfectly covered, and Page bristled over his manipulations. She didn’t want to be appreciative—didn’t want to be indebted to this man for any reason at all.

  Did he treat his son so patiently?

  Page couldn’t help but feel a prick of envy over the notion. And his actions only served to remind her that her father was a terrible liar. The man standing before her no more beat his own son than he would ever beat Page. She knew that instinctively and the thought both relieved and aggrieved her at once.

  Only belatedly did she realize that he was staring yet again. “What are you looking at now?” she asked peevishly.

  His lips turned. “I should think it might be evident.”

  Page lifted both her brows. “You’re wondering whether I’d make a tasty meal?” she ventured. “Don’t bother, you would find me bitter, I assure you.”

  His lips turned a scant more. “Tempting though the thought may be ... nay.” His expression turned sober. He reached suddenly to brush a strand of tangled hair from her face, and Page fancied biting off his fingers, so much fury was she feeling. He held a hand before her face, separating the damp strands between his fingers. “I was merely wonderin’ at what ye were thinking, lass.”

  Lass.

  The way he spoke the single word... as though it were laden with affection, made Page’s heart wrench. “Naught,” she lied, and nearly choked on her anger and her grief. “Only that my father—” He tucked a strand behind her ear, and her thoughts scattered to the winds.

  “I know, I know... he’ll pluck oot my eyes,” he finished for her, as he pulled the plaid blanket from his belt. He drew it from his back, and covered her with its formidable length.

  To Page’s dismay, it was still warm with the heat of his body, and the scent of him rose to accost her: sunshine, horseflesh and man. Unreasonably, she found herself wondering whether his skin would be swarthy from the sun.

  She imagined him bare-chested, working…and then realizing what she was doing, expunging the image at once, shocked by her own thoughts. She felt her face flush, her protests silenced by the fierce pounding of her traitorous heart.

  Until he laid down and stretched out before her suddenly, resting his head upon her lap. And then she found her voice at once. “What do you think you are doing, sir?”

  He had the audacity to wink. “Sleeping,” he said. His long hair spilled over her lap, dark as ebony silk.

  “Not on me, you will not!”

  “Ye’ve my breacan,” he pointed out quite reasonably, his voice gentle. “So where would ye have me sleep but here?”

  “In a tree for all I care,” Page snapped, squeezing her eyes shut. But it was no use, for the image accosted her behind closed lids with greater detail. “Please stop calling me lass!” she said, her eyes going wide again.

  His eyes glinted by the light of the moon. “Verra well, lass,” he agreed with a smile in his voice, “what would ye have me call ye if no’ lass?”

  He was mocking her, Page realized, and she found herself mute with chagrin. She’d be hung by her toes before she’d ever reveal her name to the likes of him. The very thought of it embarrassed her to her soul. “Oaf! Please take your accursed breacan and be gone! I will not allow you to sleep with me! Get off!”

  “I’m no’ sleepin’ wi’ ye, lass. I’m sleepin’ on ye,” he pointed out, without compunction. “And nay, I will not go. What better way to keep you warm and free from harm?”

  “What better way to watch me while you sleep, isn’t that what you mean?”

  His smile widened. “That too.”

  “I could spit upon you, you realize. And I might just do that. Wait and see.”

  “Aye... ye could,” he agreed, “but I’d be sorely taxed and then I’d have to send Lagan over to guard ye, instead and I’d be guessin’ that my cousin would take pleasure in a buxom Engl
ish lass for a pilloo.” He snuggled a bit to illustrate his point. His chest expanded with his intake of breath, and he sighed audibly, sounding as contented as a child left to fill his belly with tarts.

  At the sight of him, Page’s stomach floated into her ribs.

  “Ach, lass, but if ye dinna mind Lagan’s wooing...”

  He made to rise, and Page shrieked. “Nay!”

  He chuckled, and lay back down. “I thought so. G’nite, then, lass.” He snuggled his head once more, like an innocent with his beloved mother.

  But he was no innocent.

  Nor was Page beloved.

  He was sleeping on her lap.

  “Overbearing brute!” she spat, glaring at him fiercely. “The only harm I have to fear is that from you.”

  “Then ye have naught to fear, at all,” he countered, shifting easily to his side and thrusting an oversized arm over her leg, cozying himself.

  His arm was nearly as big as her thigh.

  He settled in to sleep. “But take heart, ye’ve only the one night to endure,” he reassured her. “Tomorrow ye’ll be safe again wi’ your Da.”

  Nay, she would not.

  Page wanted to slap his arrogant face—wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh. “Get off me!” she cried, and tried to free her hands. She muttered an oath when the bindings refused to come free.

  “Does your father know ye’ve such a rude tongue?” he asked sleepily.

  “’Tis not of your concern! Beast! Rest yourself comfortable, why do you not!” Page fought the urge to scream, knowing the last thing she needed now was to wake the rest of his men.

  “Dinna mind if I do,” he murmured.

  And then he closed his eyes, dismissing her once and for all, and Page wished, not for the first time, that she could box his ears. She tried to move her legs, but he held her pinned with his weight. At last, she ceased her struggles only to summon every blasphemy she’d ever heard uttered in her life. “Oaf!” she hissed. “Swine! Knave! Scot!”

  His lips curled into a smile.

  Page tried to think of worse. “Beast! Demon! Black-hearted dev—”

  “Ye’re to be well commended on your mastery of the language,” he said.

  “And you shall never get your son back!” Page swore in anger.

  His expression sobered all at once, though he didn’t open his eyes. His jaw went taught and a muscle ticked there. “For your sake, ye’d better be hopin’ I do.”

  Page felt hopelessness seep into her soul. She didn’t know what else to say. She hadn’t lied. The MacKinnon wouldn’t get his son back. Her father would never deal with him, and Page was doomed.

  Doomed!

  Page sat back, listening to the frogs croak. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted. It was going to be a very long night.

  “If I thought ye would answer me true,” the MacKinnon said after a long moment, “I would ask ye how my son fares.” His eyes remained closed, but Page could see that his jaw remained taut. Worry etched his features.

  No matter how she might despise him, she found she couldn’t bring herself to deny him the answer he sought. This one thing she could never withhold from an anxious father.

  She sighed. “If I were inclined to answer, I would tell you he fares very well. He’s not been abused, if ’tis what you fear—at least not by us. He simply will not speak, is all.”

  She could see the strain ease from his face, and found herself envious of his boy, that he should have a father who fretted for him so, who’d come for miles to retrieve him. But then... fathers always valued their sons, did they not?

  Page’s heart twisted, and she wished, not for the first time, that she had been born a boy Her father had bastards aplenty, and every one had earned more of his grace than she ever had.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, and didn’t speak to her again.

  Page averted her face, trying to ignore the stranger lying so intimately on her lap. But it was a futile gesture, for never in her life had she been more aware of another human being.

  Safe again with her father, indeed!

  The very notion was laughable. Security was something more than simply being free from harm. Page knew that instinctively... and yet... she had never truly known the feeling at all. Security was an alien concept, for it spoke to her of warmth and caring... a welcoming embrace... things she had truly never known.

  She snorted and refused to look down again until the man was snoring beneath her. Fast asleep—and just so easily! She ought to spit on him for truth. Wouldn’t that show him? She ought to drool over him, too.

  Page squirmed beneath him, trying to dislodge him from her limbs, all to no avail. His weight, as he’d intended, made it impossible. Wretched, insufferable man.

  She ought to scream in his ear—but she didn’t want him to follow through with his threat and send Lagan over to guard her instead. That one, she trusted the least of all.

  And that brought her to another thought entirely... how pitiable was it that the one man who, by rights, should have been the cruelest to her was the one man who had been the most gentle.

  It made all too little sense.

  What would he do when her father refused to deal with him?

  She would discover that all too soon.

  But her last coherent thought before she dozed was not unlike that of a stray dog’s, she reflected unhappily... for it occurred to her to wonder, if the MacKinnon would think to keep her.

  God forgive her, but the foolish notion kindled just the tiniest spark of... something... Something so absurdly unreasonable that she refused to give it name...

  Chapter 4

  Iain forced his body to rest, but his mind worked ceaselessly through the night.

  In his half-sensate state, he was wholly aware of where he lay. He could hear the lassie’s even, steady breathing when she dozed at last, and her fitful slumber when her dreams disturbed her.

  He understood what those soft cries bespoke, for his own nights were all too often plagued by demons—worse since Malcom’s abduction.

  She was afeared, he realized, and guilt pricked at him. She had too much pride to cower before him while awake, but in her dreams she could scarce keep herself from showing it.

  Despite that she was his enemy’s own flesh and blood, Iain could only admire her, for she’d masked her fear well, had stood up to him like the fiercest of she-wolves—in defense of his son! He only wished he didn’t have to resort to measures that would cause her such distress, though it couldn’t be helped.

  He would do anything to ensure Malcom’s return.

  Anything.

  He was full awake come first light, but loath to move lest he wake the girl. For the longest interval, he lay, listening to the easy rhythm of her breathing, and savoring the delicate scent of the woman upon whom his head was so intimately nestled. He smiled, remembering the indignant tone of her voice when he’d dared insinuate himself upon her person.

  He hadn’t intended to be so bold—had only meant to sleep beside her—but the beguiling scent and sight of her had appealed to his baser instincts. And then, as he knelt over her, bantering words, listening to her stubbornly insist that she could fend for herself, that she didn’t need his aid, and watching her stroke the blood back into her aching wrists, a strange tenderness stole over him. She wasn’t nearly as strong as she appeared, he sensed, and he fully intended to hasten the negotiations and see her safely returned to her Da.

  In truth, had she been any other woman, under any other circumstances, he might have liked to get to know her better.

  He opened his eyes and peered up into her face, trying to ignore the thoughts racing through his mind.

  Exhausted, she slept still, her head lolling forward. Touched by the faint morning light, her features were soft and delicate, hardened only by the memory of her temper. His lips curved slightly at the memory of her standing before him, fists clenching at her sides.

  Her father would pluck out his eyes, would he?

 
Vixen.

  Her hair was the color of burnt umber. Tightly braided at her back, it was of undeterminable length, but the curls that fell loose about her face were long enough to sweep his forehead. He reached out, testing a soft curl between his fingertips.

  Her lashes were long and sooty, he noted, darker than they might have been for one whose skin was so fair.

  And her lips... they were her very best feature, he decided, full and luscious... made for a mon to kiss.

  Iain snapped his eyes shut, constraining his thoughts. Lifting his head, he rolled free of her, telling himself that he had no business to be preoccupied with some lassie’s mouth.

  Not now.

  Certainly not her!

  Careful not to wake her, he knelt down next to her, bracing his body against her so that she might lean into him, and then he reached behind the tree to unbind her wrists. Once liberated, she slumped sideways. Iain caught her, and eased her down upon the ground to inspect her wrists for damage. He frowned as he examined them. Although he’d taken care not to bind them too tightly, they were chafed nevertheless. They must have pained her, and yet she’d spoken nary a word in protest. Gently he began to massage her wrists and hands, her fingers, and was surprised to find them coarse to the touch, not soft as he’d imagined they should be for a highborn woman. His brows furrowed as he turned them, considering their callused condition.

  His gaze returned to her face to find her awake and watching, the strangest look nestled deep in her soulful eyes... eyes so deep a brown, they recalled him to some cool, dark cavern. They drew him just as surely as his childhood sanctuary had—the great stone cairn that had lured him despite his father’s admonitions and curses—with the promise of secrets to unfold.

  What secrets had she to be discovered?

  She jerked her hand free and scrambled to sit, scooting away from him.

  “Haven’t you a bargain to go put forth?” she asked, her voice throaty from her slumber. She lifted a brow. “Or have you changed your mind already, and decided you cannot part with me, after all?”

  “Troublesome woman,” Iain said without much heat. He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You dinna quit, do ye, lass? What do ye think? That I’d give up my son for the comfort of your lap? I dinna think so.”