But by late afternoon she began to worry she wasn’t going to be afforded the opportunity to use the snippets to find her way back home. It was becoming more and more difficult to tear at her shift without gaining notice, as the hem had long since whittled to her knees. When the sun began to fade at last, she resisted the urge to peer back to see how visible the tiny scraps were. She couldn’t afford to have them suspect her. While the MacKinnon hadn’t spared her more than a glance in the hours they’d been traveling, the old man Angus and the one they called Broc kept her, without fail, within their sights.
Angus, for his part, seemed disinclined to forgive her surly temper of the previous eve. The old man frowned at her every time he chanced to peer her way. Well, she didn’t care. She didn’t need the old fool to like her. Forsooth, but she’d lived a lifetime without his favor. Why should she care that some old goose she’d only just met, and wouldn’t know for long—her enemy at that—disapproved of her? She certainly did not.
Broc, on the other hand... She couldn’t quite figure this one out. Hours ago, she could have sworn he’d spied her tearing her shift and casting the fragment upon the ground, and yet he’d said nothing at all. He’d kept his silence, casting her dubious glances now and again, but nothing more.
Mayhap, in truth, he’d not spied her. She nibbled the inside of her lip as she considered the possibility.
Well, soon enough she’d have her answer, because it was time to tear another piece. She didn’t want the scraps planted too far apart—nor too close, lest she run out of shift to rend. But judging by the position of the sun, she thought they might be stopping soon for the night. At the moment, running out of material didn’t seem to be her greatest concern—locating the scraps in the dark would be. And yet there was no help for it.
Each time she dropped a scrap, Page tried her best to note the surrounding landscape. She only hoped she would be able to recognize the way come nightfall. In her favor, the moon would be almost full again tonight. Its light should help guide her—if she found a way to escape, she reminded herself. She wasn’t free as yet.
Mayhap she could talk the MacKinnon into leaving her unfettered.
Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Page gathered her bliaut into her fist, raising her skirt. She glanced about, as nonchalantly as possible, to be certain no one was watching. No one was, and she quickly ripped another fragment from her undershift, then released her skirts, letting the hem fall once again. Clutching the scrap within her fist, she tried to gather the nerve once more to drop it.
She made the mistake of peering about right then, and she met the MacKinnon’s gaze. Her heart leapt into her throat.
He was watching her over his shoulder...
Had he spied her?
Nay... she didn’t think so, for his face was a mask without expression. He held her gaze imprisoned for an eternity, holding her as surely as though in physical bonds, but his expression remained unreadable.
Page’s heart began to pound as she gripped the cloth within her fist.
Drop it, she told herself. He wouldn’t see it. His gaze was riveted upon her face. With the flurry of movement about them, the rise and fall of so many hooves, there was no way he would spy the fragment fluttering to the ground.
But she couldn’t do it. His gaze held her riveted, paralyzed, while her heart beat like thunder in her ears.
And then he suddenly released her, looking away, toward his son, and Page felt the withdrawal acutely. To her shock, found she didn’t actually want him to go back to ignoring her. She stared at his back, feeling bereft in a way she didn’t quite comprehend.
He’d ridden the entire day with his son, the two of them talking, laughing, sharing in a way that made Page ache deep down. In truth, she didn’t wish to feel this... this... envy. It was deep and black and ugly, but she could scarce help herself. Seeing the MacKinnon smooth the back of his son’s hair with his open palm, the gesture such a loving one, filled her heart with grief like she’d never known. It left her with an emptiness she’d only suspected was there before now.
The undiscovered void.
All her life she’d filled it with indifference and resentment, and in the space of a day these people, the MacKinnon and his son, had revealed it.
Watching the way he squeezed the boy’s shoulder, the way that he leaned forward to almost embrace him, as though he didn’t wish to embarrass the child, or himself before his men, but couldn’t quite help himself, made her eyes sting with tears.
She’d never known the feel of a hand upon her shoulder, or the tender brush of a palm upon her face...
Her eyes closed and she remembered against her will... the gentle way he’d held her face... the whisper-soft way he’d spoken to her... It made her shiver still... made her yearn for that moment once again. How piteous, she thought, that she would be reduced to such a shameful longing.
Like some Jezebel who cared not a whit who her lover was, nor even whether she knew his name, only that he was there when the lights were doused, she craved her enemy’s touch.
Even knowing it was contemptible.
Even knowing he had betrayed her father.
Even knowing her father wanted her back.
Long after he’d turned away, Page clutched the cloth within her hand, unaware that she did so.
She was startled from her thoughts by an unfamiliar voice, and turned to find that the one called Broc had somehow maneuvered his way to ride alongside her. He sat his mount, staring as though awaiting her response.
To what? What had he said? And where had he come from so quickly? She’d not heard, nor spied his approach. Her heart hammered guiltily as she remembered the cloth in her hand. She tried to conceal the evidence within the folds of her skirt.
Broc glanced about, and then turned narrowed eyes upon her. The spite in his voice gave lie to the sweetness of his youthful face. “I said... ’twill take more than a siren’s voice and a pretty song to woo the rest o’ us, wench.”
For an instant Page didn’t understand what it was he was speaking of, and then it occurred to her that he must be referring to the lullai bye she’d sung to Malcom the night before. She stiffened in the saddle, offended by the conclusions he’d drawn.
“I was trying to woo no one,” she assured him. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
“Guid,” he said, leering at her, “because ’tis no one ye wooed.”
Page resisted the urge to hurl the scrap she held into his face. She wanted to throw something at him, but the cloth wouldn’t hurt him, she realized—would likely make him laugh with glee, and then she would be left to explain its existence.
“I dinna ken why the laird doesna simply leave ye,” he said nastily, “nor why he seems compelled to save ye from your wretched Da—though I’ve no such compunction. ’Tis your fault poor Ranald is strapped t’ the back o’ Lagan’s mount. Your fault, and no other, d’ ye hear me, wench?”
For an instant Page was too stunned by his accusation to do any more than stare up at the fair-haired giant. For a mere instant, she felt beyond small, for these Scots were each one taller than the other. And their tempers, one more surly than the next.
How dare he place the blame for Ranald’s death at her feet.
Refusing to cow to his charge, Page narrowed her eyes at him. “How dare you accuse me, sir. I have absolutely no idea what poor Ranald wandered into, but whatever it was, was of his own doing—not mine. Of that, I assure you.”
He scratched idly behind his head.
“So ye say.”
He couldn’t possibly think her responsible. Could he? Her breath snagged at the sudden hope that spiraled to life within her. Unless... her father had come after her...
“Did my father do it?” she asked, and couldn’t conceal the note of hope in her voice.
“Nay,” the behemoth replied, with disgust, and then surprised her by adding, “No such luck, wench. Though he willna be rid o’ ye so easily—I swear by the stone.”<
br />
“So easily?” Page blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand...” Her brows collided. “What is it you are trying to say?”
He glowered at her. “Never mind, wench.” He shook his head, as though he thought she was too obtuse to understand, and didn’t care to waste anymore words. He leaned closer to speak in a whisper. “I dinna come to speak aboot your loathsome Da,” he said, reaching back and scratching at his scalp. “Only to tell ye to drop the cloth already.”
Momentarily shocked, Page crushed the fragment within her fist and instinctively buried her hand deeper within her skirts.
His lips twisted with unconcealed contempt and his gaze shifted to the hand she’d shielded. “Drop it,” he charged her.
Page stiffened in the saddle, her gaze flying about in alarm.
“Ach, wench, I’ll no’ be exposin’ ye,” he reassured her.
Her gaze snapped back to his face. “You will not?”
He shook his head, eyes gleaming. “I want ye gone, e’en more than you wish to go,” he swore. “Though if ye willna drop the accursed thing, wi’ our luck, ye’ll wander in circles and end up right back in our camp.”
Page frowned, growing more and more confused. “But... I... I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “What of your laird?” She cast a nervous glance at the MacKinnon’s back. “I... I thought he...”
“Wanted ye?” The behemoth snorted and then turned to glance at his chieftain. “A mon says many things in a moment of... weakness.”
His gaze returned to Page, and her face heated as she remembered the moment she and the MacKinnon had shared the night before.
What is it I have to fear? she recalled asking him.
That I might want ye, he’d whispered.
Had everyone else overheard, as well? If Page had cared one whit what these people thought of her, she would have been riddled with shame. But she didn’t care, she told herself. And she was not.
He scratched at his head again. “I tell ye true... the MacKinnon doesna want ye any more than the rest o’ us do,” he told her.
Page said nothing in response, merely glared at him. Somehow, his words wounded her, although she told herself she didn’t care. After all, wanting a woman in a moment of physical weakness was certainly not the same as wanting her for a lifetime. That she knew.
“‘More than anything, I’d be doin’ Iain a favor,” he persisted. “He simply doesna wish to have your death upon his conscience, is all. And he doesna have to if you’ll but drop the piece of cloth.”
Deny it all she wished, but the truth pained her. Her confusion intensified with the ache in her heart. Something niggled at her... something...
The MacKinnon didn’t wish to have her death upon his conscience? And yet why should he have her death upon his conscience unless he meant to kill her? And he didn’t want her... but he’d taken her, nevertheless?
Something was not right.
He’d said he’d taken her out of revenge... an eye for an eye, she reminded herself. And then he had said he’d wanted her. Last night. Or that he might want her—curse it all, she was growing all the more confused.
“But...” Page averted her gaze, unwilling to show him her pain, or the upheaval of her thoughts. “He said—”
“Never mind what he said. Drop the cloth,” he commanded her quietly. “Drop it now, and keep them droppin’ till ye’re sittin’ bare upon poor Ranald’s mount. I’ll cover ye... and then I’ll help ye escape when the time comes. Do it,” he hounded her.
Page stared a long moment at the MacKinnon’s back.
He was preoccupied with his son, never the least aware of her presence. He didn’t want her—couldn’t possibly want her—and why should he?
She peered at the rest of the men, watching them a moment longer. Not a one of them seemed to be the least concerned with the discussion she and Broc were having.
The ache in her heart intensified. Why? Her brows drew together. Why should she care one whit what these people felt for her? She couldn’t possibly have thought they’d want her, after all? That they would take her as one of their own into their fold? She couldn’t have possibly hoped?
How disgustingly foolish she was, for she suspected that some silent aching part of her had longed for precisely those things.
“Drop it,” Broc demanded again, and Page moved her hand out from her skirts. She held her fist clenched at her side, concealed between them.
He eyed her closed hand expectantly, and she was uncertain whether to drop the fragment or nay. It could be a trap, she realized. In truth, he might well be trying to coax the evidence from her hand...
And then again, nay, for all he would need do was utter a single word to his laird, and then her ploy would be finished... and he’d not done so yet.
“Unless ye dinna wish to go,” he taunted. Page met his mocking blue gaze. “Are ye so smitten wi’ the MacKinnon already, English? D’ ye want him to want you?” He lifted a pale brow in challenge. “Is that it?”
Glaring at him, Page opened her hand suddenly, releasing the piece of cloth. It fluttered down between cantering hooves.
He smiled. “There now,” he said. “It wasna so difficult, was it?”
“Scot!” She spat the word as though it were a blasphemy, but he seemed impervious to her anger. “I can scarce wait to be free of the lot of you.”
“Guid,” the giant said, grinning. “Because the feeling is mutual.”
“Behemoth!” she hissed at him. “Do you oft make it a practice to tyrannize those who are weaker than you?”
His grin suddenly turned into a frown, and he seemed genuinely insulted by her question. Good! Let him be.
“I’d rather be a behemoth,” he grumbled, “than an impertinent dwarf.”
Page straightened her spine, utterly insulted. “I am not a dwarf, you despotic oaf!” She stared at him, wondering if he was blind. “I am tall for a woman, I’ll have you know—or mayhap Scots women all are behemoths, too?” He didn’t react enough to Page’s liking and she added spitefully, “Or mayhap you wouldn’t know? Perchance all women run in fear of you?”
Scarlet color crept up Broc’s fair neck and into his pretty face, and Page was wholly shocked to find that her words unerringly hit the mark. With a face like the one he possessed, she’d never have guessed. His blue eyes were clear and bright, and his features well defined. He had not the stark, masculine beauty of the MacKinnon, but he was comely nonetheless. Guilt stung her, although she told herself he deserved every single word.
“Do you not have a woman, Broc?” she asked, trying to soothe his bruised feelings, despite that she knew not why she should.
The giant straightened his spine, his disposition surly as he revealed, “I have a dog. What need have I for a woman?”
He turned away, his cheeks scarlet, and Page nipped at her lip to keep from grinning at his innocent question—his even more callow reply. Even Page knew what a man needed with a woman. She’d certainly spied enough couples in the shadows of Aldergh to know.
“She’s a verra smart dog,” he added defensively, although he didn’t bother to look at her again. “The smartest dog I’ve ever known.”
Page didn’t reply.
“Loyal, too,” he added, and she nearly burst into laughter at his plaintive tone.
Could he not hear himself? She continued to stare, and had to resist the urge to breach the barrier between them, to put her hand upon his arm and soothe his injured pride.
He scratched rather earnestly at his groin area, and then the back of his ear, and Page grimaced, wondering if he’d gotten fleas from sleeping with his dog.
“What are ye looking at?” he snapped, once he turned to find her staring.
Page cringed at the harsh tone of his voice and averted her gaze, determined not to banter words with the surly giant any longer. Although she’d never admit it to him, she’d certainly run in fear of him as well.
Shielded by his towering form, she continued to tear sn
ippets from her undershift and then drop them at intervals, and though she cursed Broc’s arrogant presence beside her, he didn’t break his word. He didn’t give her away.
Chapter 15
Out of everything she’d endured, Page wasn’t certain which was worse to bear: the presence of the irksome giant beside her... the gruesome foot waving at her from beneath the blanket on the horse in front of her... or the sight of the MacKinnon riding at their lead.
Like some heathen idol he sat his mount, tall and magnificent in the saddle, his dark, wavy hair blowing softly at his back. In the afternoon sunlight, the specks of silver at his temples appeared almost some pagan ornament, for the near metallic gleam of his braid was startling against his youthful features. The sinewy strength evident in the wide set of his shoulders and solid breadth of his back only served to emphasize the fact that he might have killed her any time he’d wished, with no more than a swat of his hand—that same hand that caressed his son so tenderly now.
In truth, he’d not even spoken to her harshly, not once. He’d been naught but gentle, and it mightily confused her.
In fact, he might have done anything he’d wished to her, and no one could have stopped him. A handful of the men present were as big as the MacKinnon, and only two were taller—the man at her side being one of them. She cast him an irritated glance. And yet she knew Broc would no more prevail against his laird than he would consider rising up against him in the first place.
None of them would.
Her gaze swept over the lot of them. It was evident to her that each and every man wholly embraced the MacKinnon as their leader. It was almost comical the way they allowed him the lead of their party. Like dogs, they followed wherever he went—and if one man chanced to pass him by, Page was struck with wonder that that man would unconsciously look to his laird, and then slow his gait to allow Iain to pass once more.
The MacKinnon, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to this ritual. He forged onward, his attention fixed only upon his son, who sat before him in the saddle, talking. The boy who would not speak chattered endlessly now.
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