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by Tanya Anne Crosby

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she answered, hugging herself, and eyeing him disdainfully. “I forget myself, but he’s your son.” And then she asked with narrowed eyes, “I wonder if you would do the same for a daughter?”

  Iain merely stared at her, his sense of unease sharpening. “Of a certain, lass,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’d do the same for any one o’ my clan. Would no’ your Da?”

  She lifted her chin, cocking her head, and smiling slightly. “Well, we shall see, shall we not?” Her smile only deepened when he frowned.

  She was provoking him, he realized.

  Such a contradictory creature, she was: noble born, with mettle enough to vanquish a king’s will, and yet—his gaze shifted to the hands she continued to stroke—those hands were far more suited to a Highland lass than to a soft English miss. She followed his gaze, and seemed to understand his scrutiny, but didn’t bother to explain. He didn’t bother to ask.

  She wasn’t his concern, Iain assured himself.

  And with that decided, he set Broc to guard her, anticipating Lagan’s and Ranald’s return. He paced as he waited, all the while aware of the dagger looks FitzSimon’s daughter was casting at his back. He dismissed her for the time being, anxious for the bargain to be put forth.

  It wasn’t long before his cousin returned—but without news of Henry’s camp. It mattered not, Iain assured himself, he wouldn’t need it. ’Twas a simple enough trade: the man’s daughter for his son.

  So why did he have a sense of doom creeping through his bones?

  Something wasn’t right.

  Iain gathered the men he would ride with, leaving only Ranald to watch over FitzSimon’s daughter. The greater their numbers, the better it would go for them. But he couldn’t quite dispel the sense of unease slithering through his gut.

  Nor could he seem to banish FitzSimon’s daughter from his thoughts.

  Even as he awaited FitzSimon’s emergence up upon the battlements, her expression continued to haunt him. He kept seeing her face as he’d left her, proud but glum. Something plagued him... something, though he could not put a finger to it as yet.

  FitzSimon was taking far too long.

  Although Iain remained mounted, he paced before the barbican gates, desperate to have his son returned.

  He was close—so close, and yet...

  The man had been disinclined to meet him face-to-face. Instead, he hid behind stone walls and the bows of his men. Nor did he appear much in a hurry to show himself. That was not the mark of a man who held great affection for his daughter and desired her return at any cost.

  The realization lifted the hairs upon his nape, and he found himself heartily glad for the slip of the lass’s tongue. Although Lagan and Ranald had scoured the area all night for the English king’s camp, to no avail, the information might still work to his advantage—provided the lass spoke the truth and King Henry was due.

  At long last, when FitzSimon deigned to appear, Iain thought the man arrogant and unmoved. For one whose daughter had strayed into enemy hands, he reacted with far too little concern over the news. Iain braced himself for the man’s doubt, telling himself that he might react the same without ample proof—perhaps he’d taken so long in showing himself because he’d been searching for his daughter inside. With a wordless gesture, he demanded the lass’s shoe from auld Angus. Angus complied at once, spurring his mount forward to hand it over. Seizing it, Iain prepared to fling it up into the ramparts. FitzSimon’s declaration arrested his hand.

  “So you have her, and what?” The older man shrugged, bracing his hands imperiously upon his hips. “What is it you wish of me, MacKinnon?”

  It took Iain a full moment to comprehend the import of the question. Like the instant Mairi had flung herself from their chamber window, he felt helpless and momentarily unhinged. He could feel Malcom wrenched away suddenly, the possibility of his return dwindling, and the sensation was almost physical. He tempered himself, knowing his emotion would only get in the way now. There would be time enough to feel once he held Malcom within his embrace once more.

  “My son for your daughter, FitzSimon!” Iain proffered, disposing with ceremony. He flung up the shoe.

  FitzSimon didn’t bother to catch it, merely eyed it disdainfully as it fell behind the rampart wall, unclaimed at his feet. He laughed, uproariously, his belly heaving with the effort. “For piety’s sake, man! What need have I of that brat?” He shook his head. “I’ve sons aplenty and the means to forge myself more!” He smacked his belly in a gesture of beneficence. “Take her if it please you, MacKinnon. I shall keep the boy. I’m not quite witless enough to risk Henry’s wrath over a stupid, bothersome wench—daughter of mine though she might be!”

  Iain could scarce believe his ears. Stupefied by the hard-hearted pronouncement, he apprised the man, “Refuse me, FitzSimon, and your daughter willna live to see the gloaming!”

  FitzSimon grinned down at him. “Really? Well, then...” He turned to leave, unmoved by the threat. “Have yourself a pleasant journey home,” he said, and chortled once more. Speaking low to his men, he dismissed Iain, once and for all.

  Iain’s destrier pranced beneath him, snorting in protest to the tension in his body, and he eased the pressure of his knees, giving the animal respite. The feeling of foreboding was at once resolved, as the lass’s words came back to haunt him: I wonder, would you do the same for a daughter? she’d asked.

  By the stone, she had known.

  His gut twisted at what was revealed to him in that moment.

  His jaw clenched. But he refused to concede defeat to the arrogant weasel. “FitzSimon!” he shouted before he could leave. The older man halted abruptly and pivoted to face him. “I’m afraid you’ve little choice in the matter,” Iain contended, his tone unyielding. “You’ll be sending down the boy, right now, or you’ll be burying a king!”

  FitzSimon’s hands fell from his sides, his interest piqued. “What say you, MacKinnon?”

  “At this verra instant,” Iain lied without compunction, “the rest o’ my men have Henry’s camp surrounded, awaiting a word from me.” He didn’t care how he achieved his aim, only that he did so. “As God is my witness,” he swore, “deny me my flesh and blood this day, and I will smite your worthless king.”

  FitzSimon seemed to consider the threat. “You lie!” he proclaimed after a moment’s deliberation.

  It was a challenge, Iain thought, and smiled. “D’ you think so?” he asked coolly. His mount pranced restively beneath him, tossing its head and sidling backward, reflecting his own agitation. He snapped the reins. “But are you willing to risk it, FitzSimon? Shall I bring the wretch and slay him before your verra own eyes? Will you believe it then?”

  “Knave!” FitzSimon returned. “I think you would not! What, then, would prevent me from delivering your son to you skewered upon my lance?”

  Iain’s careful control snapped with the threat. He surged from his saddle, standing in the stirrups, his fury evident in every rigid inch of his body. “So help me, FitzSimon, I wouldst lay waste to every inch of this accursed land. I wadna relent until your black heart rested in my hands. And I swear by Jacob’s Stone that I willna rest until your blood salts this land. Return my son to me this instant!”

  The older man seemed to recoil a little, though he took a step forward and said, glaring down, “Arrogant Scot! What prevents me from putting an arrow through your skull as we speak?” FitzSimon’s men moved into position at the threat, prepared to carry it out, but FitzSimon raised his hand, staying them. “Best you tell me now,” he demanded, “afore you tempt me too far.”

  Iain removed his helm in a defiant gesture, smiling resolutely. He was heartily glad for the lone man he’d left upon the rise in the distance.

  “Look to my back, FitzSimon,” he suggested, his expression one of utmost confidence. “Do you spy the watchman upon the hill?”

  FitzSimon shaded his eyes and peered i
nto the horizon as bade of him. His face, when he gazed down once more, was visibly strained. He’d obviously spied the glitter of mail.

  There was no way FitzSimon could know how many men he’d brought with him, or how many lay in wait beyond the hill. He couldn’t know that Iain had brought every last man, save two, to the bargaining table. “You canna reach him in time to prevent my men from carrying out their orders,” Iain said. “They lie in wait, even as we speak. And still... the choice is yours. Do you care to try me, FitzSimon?”

  FitzSimon’s face became a mask of guarded fury. “How is it you learned of Henry’s approach?” he asked, stalling shrewdly. He turned to speak harshly to one of the men, and the man hastened away.

  Iain settled once more within the saddle, recognizing the first sign of concession. His smile hardened. “You have your daughter to thank for that,” he yielded. And then advised, “And dinna be thinking to send a man to warn the king’s army. I’ve anticipated that, as well. He willna make it oot the postern without an arrow through his skull.”

  FitzSimon lost his composure all at once, stamping his foot and carrying on furiously, shouting obscenities. Iain was taken aback by the callow display. “That pernicious shrew!” he spat, and then stood, facing down Iain in silence.

  Iain sensed his victory in that instant, and demanded, “Send down the boy, FitzSimon, and I will leave be your king in one piece.”

  “How can I be certain you speak the truth? Show me your proof.”

  “What proof can I offer, save Henry’s head, FitzSimon? Nay, I’m afraid you have no choice but to trust me.”

  “Trust you?” FitzSimon scoffed. “Only a fool would trust a Scot! Even were I to return the boy, what assurances have I that you will not fall upon Henry still?”

  “Only my word,” Iain countered. “Send down my son and I pledge you my word that I’ll no’ harm your thieving king. All I want is Malcom’s return, naught more. Gi’ him to me, FitzSimon, and I’ll take my men and go at once.”

  FitzSimon yielded to another outburst of temper, cursing the Scots, cursing the fates, cursing David of Scotia for placing him in such an untenable position by calling upon his favor. He conferred with his men and then turned to address Iain. “Very well, I’ll send down the boy. Take the witless brat and then be gone!” He turned at once, not bothering to await Iain’s response, and spoke to one of his men, before vanishing from the ramparts. Although it seemed an eternity passed, it wasn’t long before the portcullis was raised. Iain’s heart hammered fiercely as he dismounted and began to walk toward the rising gates.

  “Wait, laird!” Dougal called out. “It could be a ruse.”

  Iain couldn’t have stopped himself had he tried.

  He didn’t see Malcom at first, hidden as he was behind the guard who preceded him, but when his little head peeked about the guard’s massive frame, Iain thought his heart would burst with joy. Malcom squealed and began to run toward him, and Iain lost all restraint in that instant and began to run as well. His son leapt up into his arms with a joyous cry, and Iain embraced him unashamedly.

  “Whelp!” he said hoarsely, burying his face against his son’s stout little shoulder. “Malcom, Malcom!”

  “I knew you would come, Da! I knew you would come!” Malcom snuggled against him. “I dinna cry,” he declared proudly. “I dinna tell them aught! I swear, I dinna!”

  Iain laughed softly. “So I’ve heard, whelp. So you dinna!”

  Iain was vaguely aware that the gates were being closed against them, and then the portcullis was lowered again as Malcom clung to him.

  “I knew you’d come,” Malcom said again, and then began to weep a child’s tears. Iain braced the boy’s head against his shoulder, comforting him, restraining his own raging emotions.

  “I’m goin’ to take you home, son,” he said, voice breaking.

  “How very moving,” FitzSimon declared from the ramparts above, his tone full of rancor. “Now take the little mutt and go home, MacKinnon!”

  Iain hung his head back, peering up into the ramparts to meet FitzSimon’s gaze. “Aye,” he agreed. “You’ve kept your end o’ the bargain, FitzSimon, now I’ll keep mine. Your daughter will be returned to you within the hour.”

  “Nay!” FitzSimon shook his head vehemently. “Keep the witch!”

  Iain was struck entirely dumb. Surely he didn’t mean it... He was but angry...

  “If you return her to me,” FitzSimon swore, “I’ll rip out her traitorous tongue!”

  Iain held his son in stunned disbelief. “I have no need of the lass,” he returned. “Surely you cannot mean that?”

  “Keep her, or kill her!” FitzSimon declared. “I care not which—only take her out of my sight.” And then he withdrew from the negotiations, ending the discourse, once and for all, leaving Iain and his men to stare after him in dumb shock.

  Chapter 5

  The men remained unsettled as they rode from Aldergh castle.

  Iain realized they were both excited and relieved about Malcom’s return, but they must have sensed his mood, for they remained reserved, each waiting their turn to welcome Malcom back into the fold.

  Iain was confused.

  It didn’t matter that the hostage awaiting them wasn’t one of their own clansmen, he anticipated her pain and sorrow just the same, and found himself angered on her behalf. Uncharacteristically, his son clung to his back, accepting the men’s good-natured ribbing and their welcome pats with subdued good cheer. Iain was scarce aware of the men’s comings and goings. Try as he might, he couldn’t forget the lass’s prideful boasts. Of course he values me... I am his daughter, am I not? Have you changed your mind... decided you cannot part with me, after all... ?

  Ach, she wasn’t his concern.

  Surely her father would never carry out his threat. He should return her. She was his daughter, after all, his flesh and blood. He was simply angry. And determining that’s what he would do, he reached back to seize Malcom about the waist. He brought his son about to sit before him, inspecting him from head to toe. His men drifted away, affording them a little privacy. Malcom giggled as Iain poked his ribs and latched on to him again, seeming afeared to release him lest he vanish from sight. Iain’s heart squeezed a bit.

  “I’ve missed you, whelp,” he said affectionately, tousling Malcom’s fine golden hair. He had to restrain himself from beginning an interrogation right then and there. More than aught, he wished to discover the name of the traitor, to ask how he’d been treated, to assure him it would never happen again, but now was not the time, he knew. All that mattered at the moment was that Malcom was safe again, and he’d never allow anything to part them ever again. Nay, but he would question Malcom later, when his son felt himself secure... when FitzSimon’s daughter was no longer his concern.

  * * *

  It had been years since Page chewed her nails, but she sat gnawing now, watching the one called Ranald pace the ground before her. To the contrary, Ranald seemed not to notice her at all, and she might have tried to steal away, save that when she dared to move from her spot by the tree, the man turned to growl at her like a mongrel dog.

  Forsooth, she had never kicked a dog before—never even been inclined to—rather had smuggled them in her room, instead, to feed them scraps she’d purloined from the table, but she certainly felt like kicking Ranald now. Like his laird, he was an overbearing brute.

  She wondered whether the MacKinnon had already met with her father as yet—worried what her father might say.

  Most of all she dreaded facing him again.

  The MacKinnon, not her father.

  She had a suspicion she might never see her father again.

  But that wasn’t what troubled Page most.

  Unreasonably, the desperation she felt to escape stemmed less from the fact that she longed to go home, and more from the fact that she was wholly and justly humiliated over having to face the MacKinnon again. She’d spoken pridefully, threatening him fallaciously, and as soon as he sp
oke with her father he would know it for what it was. Naught but bluster.

  Why did she care what he thought of her anyway?

  Would he laugh in her face? Mock her? Pity her?

  Page didn’t think she could bear it—anything would be better than pity. Her eyes stung at the merest thought.

  Confusing, arrogant Scot!

  Why had he shown her any consideration at all?

  It would have been so much easier had he shown her cruelty, instead. That, she might have dealt with easily. She might have simply grit her teeth and borne it. Pity was another matter entirely.

  And why did he have to go and call her lass as though he cared?

  His tone when he’d addressed her made her feel—well, she wasn’t certain how it made her feel, only knew that the thrill she’d experienced whenever he’d spoken the endearment eclipsed her despair.

  Somehow, in the space of a single evening, he’d managed to rip open every last wound she’d healed throughout the years.

  Both she and Ranald heard the approaching hooves at the same time.

  Ranald quit his pacing to face his clan as they emerged into the copse. Page’s heart vaulted into her throat. Hot tears, although she tried to suppress them, burned at her eyes. She didn’t dare stand and face him—felt, instead, like burrowing deep into the ground and hiding there for the rest of her given days. She shouldn’t care what he thought, and told herself she didn’t care, but she knew very well that was a lie. Somehow, she cared very much what the MacKinnon thought of her.

  The one called Lagan emerged first, waving his hand and speaking his Scots tongue. Page had no inkling what he was saying. She couldn’t particularly tell whether he was furious or gleeful, for his expressions were mixed. A few men straggled into the copse behind him; they, too, spoke excitedly.

  And then came the MacKinnon, and Page understood at once.