Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Ah, but her soul... her soul still yearned and soared, flying from its confines within the prison of her heart, like a specter walking through solid walls.

  Her fingers unknowingly tangled within his hair, and she was unaware that he eased his grip.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me, lass.” He kissed her cheek. “I didna mean to hurt you...”

  “I know,” Page said, and somehow knew it was so. And then she couldn’t think at all, for his hands found their way to her face. He cupped her cheek as he had that first night... with a tenderness that stole her breath and heart away, and tears sprang to her eyes.

  Chapter 17

  The desire she revealed to him so unabashedly made Iain’s heart trip painfully. It sluiced through his soul like a hallowed stream of light, banishing shadows from the darkest reaches.

  “I shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Shouldn’t want...” And the desperation he heard in her voice tore at his soul. He shouldn’t want her either, but he did. He shouldn’t feel for her, but he did.

  He turned her face. “But you do?”

  She closed her eyes and rested her forehead upon his. “Nay.”

  He drew away a fraction, staring into her eyes. Deeper shadows descended upon the forest, bathing them in gloaming light, but still he could see the bewilderment in her eyes.

  The truth.

  “I see it in your gaze, lass,” he said.

  She denied it once more, a quick jerk of her head that convinced him not at all.

  “I shouldn’t,” she persisted.

  He cupped her chin, drawing it up so that he might better see her lips when she spoke. “That look tells me otherwise.”

  He drew himself up, placing his lips to her beautiful chin.

  Instinctively she tilted her head low, putting her lips on his of her own accord, and he covered her mouth with his own, tasting her lips, tentatively at first.

  Page felt every sweet caress deep in her soul. Every soft foray across her lips sent her heart into a wild skitter.

  Was this so wrong? Could this ever be more than just two lonely souls in need of a warm embrace, recognition of the sadness and isolation within each other? Never in her life had she craved or felt its equal.

  What if this one instant in time were to be her fleeting moment of happiness? Her one chance at this sense... of belonging... of feeling... wanted...

  Would she regret never taking it?

  She knew he couldn’t possibly love her, nor could she love him, for they were strangers. And yet... he did want her. She knew it by the way he touched her... so gently, and yet with such ardor that it made her heart cry out with joy.

  It was the sweetest taste of bliss.

  Everything she had ever dreamed.

  “Tell me now that ye dinna want me, lass,” he challenged her, tearing himself back from another tender kiss.

  He left her with her eyes closed, unable to open them to the world. She wanted to go back... experience every delicious moment all over again.

  “Aye,” she whispered breathlessly, never opening her eyes. If she didn’t open them, it didn’t have to be real...

  But she could pretend...

  “I do—I know not how, but I do...”

  At her honest admission, pleasure so keen it was almost pain shot through Iain. And then he groaned as an entirely different sort of pain dizzied him. It burst through his limbs when he tried to lift himself from the ground to better kiss her. “Ah...lass...” He closed his eyes against it.

  He heard her gasp of alarm. “Are you hurt?” she asked, and he could see the concern in her eyes, hear it in her voice. It was like a balm for his soul.

  In truth, he didn’t know if he was hurt. He’d come to, surprised to find her warm, soft face nestled so intimately against his own, and was at once ensorcelled by her scent, her nearness, so much so that he’d somehow forgotten why he was sprawled in the middle of the soggy woodland floor to begin with.

  He lay back down for an instant, and tried to move his legs. They moved well enough, he thought, but they ached like the devil. He met her worried gaze, and felt the need to reassure her, “Naught seems broken so far.” He smiled, not wholly convinced himself.

  Neither did she seem overly assured, and her lovely brows drew together into a barely discernible frown.

  “Truly?”

  Iain moved his legs again to show her, grimacing, and then tried to rise. He fell back upon his rear, his brows drawing together in discomfiture. “No’ broken, though a wee unsteady.” He winked at her. “Ach, but ye weave a wicked spell, lass.” He grinned then, to be certain she understood he was jesting with her. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured, when she failed to smile.

  He sat upon his rump a long instant, watching her as the sun continued its descent, and wished that the moment’s spell hadn’t broken. In the dimming light, her blush faded to shadows, but the delicate contours of her face remained to bewitch him.

  Ach, she was lovely. Truthfully, she might have been wearing that infernal meal sack she’d rolled out of so indignantly and Iain would have still thought her exquisite.

  They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, neither speaking.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said at last. “I dinna mean to.” He leaned against one hand and propped up a knee, watching her. She averted her gaze; the silhouette of her face nodded against the twilight shadows of the forest. Iain reached out, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes in the darkness. “I dinna mean to,” he said again.

  She tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t allow it. Forced to hold his gaze, she made some choked sound that revealed both her anger and her pain.

  He’d meant well. It might not seem so, but he had. It was all he could do not to avert his gaze from her accusing look, so much self-disgust did he feel.

  She began to weep then, right there before him on the forest floor. Ignoring the pain, Iain drew her into his arms and held her, her body trembling softly within his embrace.

  And Page clung to him, unable to refuse the comfort of the MacKinnon’s strong arms. How many times had she yearned to be held thus? How many times had she wept to herself?

  Too many to recount.

  It felt good to be embraced... so good to be held as though she were loved. For the space of an instant, she could almost believe it.

  She buried her face into the crook of Iain’s neck and was heartily grateful that he couldn’t see the tears she was shedding. It was enough that he could hear them. She couldn’t stop the tremors. To her mortification, she tried, but she couldn’t.

  “What does it mean?”

  “What, lass?”

  “Suisan.”

  He peered down at her. She could feel his gaze, and the sweet warmth of his breath, and dared to lift her face to his.

  “It means lily.”

  “Lily?”

  “Bonny and sweet,” he whispered.

  “Nay,” Page whispered back.

  “Aye, lass,” he murmured, and continued to stare down at her. “Lovely...” He lowered his face and touched his mouth to hers. “Sweet,” he whispered, and then pecked her lips with another gentle kiss.

  Page’s arms tightened about his neck, her heart hammering like a ram, and near to bursting with gratitude. “Thank you,” she relented, and prayed with all her heart that he would deepen the kiss once more.

  Hope, like weak candlelight, flickered within her heart.

  For an instant she thought he might kiss her again, for he stared down at her as though he would, his heart beating as fiercely as her own, his breathing as labored. She almost drew him down to her mouth, so much did she wish for it, craving the gentle reassurance of his warm lips, the hunger of his kiss.

  He came so close...

  She could almost feel the heat of his mouth so near her own that her stomach fluttered wildly. His embrace tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh. In that intimate position they remained for what seemed an eternity—a heartbeat too lo
ng, for she lost the chance to lift her mouth to his lips and ask for what he would give her in that wordless language that lovers shared.

  “We should go now,” he said, and Page’s heart knotted with regret.

  “Yes,” Page replied softly, sullenly. “Before it gets dark.”

  He chuckled and squeezed her playfully. “Ach, lass, it already is dark,” he pointed out jovially.

  His waggish tone brought a reluctant smile to Page’s lips and she found herself teasing in return. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  He laughed softly. “Didn’t ye now?” And then his mood turned serious. “Page,” he whispered.

  For an instant Page could scarce breathe, so much pain did the single word evoke. It wasn’t a name she’d been given; she’d simply grown into it, having carried out a page’s duties for her father. It spoke of loneliness and sorrow and disdain.

  On the other hand, Suisan was beautiful. Lilies, he’d said. A wistful smile came to her lips. He’d said he thought her lovely and sweet. In that instant, she thought him wonderful and beautiful and kind, and her heart threatened to steal away with him.

  Without considering the significance of her request, she said, “You can call me Suisan... if it please you...”

  He didn’t reply at once, and then after a moment, he said, “Aye, lass... it would please me verra much.”

  That night Page couldn’t sleep.

  Her heart raced and her body thrilled with awareness of the man who lay sleeping beside her. It was impossible to forget the way it had felt to be within his arms—as though it were the very place she’d always longed to be, and now she never wanted to leave.

  But she must go.

  She was more determined now than ever.

  For her own sake, if not for her father’s—she didn’t want Iain coming after her, didn’t want to lose her father now that there was, at long last, a small chance to know him. If there was any chance at all.

  More than anything, she didn’t want him to regret his decision.

  Then, too, she was heartily afraid she was wrong about the attraction she was feeling toward Iain MacKinnon—that it wasn’t one of the body, but one of the heart and mind. She was sorely tempted to love him.

  Whenever she thought of him, her heart seemed to swell with emotions—both bitter and sweet. Lying next to him now, she felt alive as never before.

  Suisan.

  The memory of his whisper sent a quiver down her spine.

  When he spoke the name, it was so easy to dream... so easy to imagine him loving her... to envision the children she would bear him... to remember his kiss...

  She closed her eyes, battling her wayward emotions and private fancies. But she couldn’t allow it—couldn’t actually give her heart to this man. He would crush it beneath his boots, with no more effort than it took for him to conjure that devastating smile.

  She shifted upon the pallet, inadvertently tugging at the wrist he had bound to his own, and her throat tightened.

  Tomorrow.

  She had to find a way to leave.

  Chapter 18

  She was planning to escape.

  He was no fool. He could see it in her eyes, the devious little brain churning behind them.

  Good.

  Let her go. He hoped she would stumble into a gullet and the wolves would drag her out and feast upon her body as they had Ranald’s—the Judas.

  ’Twould be for the best, he thought, and then he could save the sawed girdings for Malcom...

  He was determined to be rid of the both of them, no matter what it took, and it would be far better to do it before they arrived at Chreagach Mhor, where Malcom was likely to be watched more closely.

  Already he’d waited too long to see vengeance carried out and he’d as lief be gutted than to wait any longer.

  No Sassenach wench was going to stop him. Unlike Iain. She’d bewitched the fool for certain, although he didn’t understand how. She was a foulmouthed wench who would have turned his own blood to ice long before he chanced to heat it.

  They were infatuated. He saw it in their eyes... the way they watched each other when either thought the other did not see. It had been revolting enough to watch Iain draw her into his protection, when she no more deserved it than did her beastly father. But to know that he’d gone back after the scraps of her clothing, in order to prevent her from escaping? He could scarce stomach the thought.

  Aye, Iain was a fool, but that was well and good, for a fool smitten by a woman was a fool of the greatest sort.

  He planned to make short work of this requital. Iain would never know what befell him... until the moment ere he closed his eyes... and then he would tell him...

  Everything.

  Aye, he’d watch him suffer the truth as he finally closed his eyes—just as he’d envisioned doing to Iain’s father.

  In the meantime, he watched the scene unfold before him with an inward smile, waiting for just the right moment to step into the fray.

  * * *

  “Oh, come now! What harm can come of my washing in the lake?” Page asked, her tone fraught with challenge.

  She’d nigh had them all convinced, and then Angus had been quick to remind them of her midnight swim, and the fact that she’d attempted to use the lake to make her escape, nearly succeeding in the endeavor. It seemed that the majority of them could not swim, after all. She gave the old man a withering glance, and informed him resolutely, “Well, the MacKinnon promised me a wash, and a wash I’ll be getting.” And she turned about to make her way down to the water’s edge, daring them to stop her.

  Angus placed himself in her path, and Page swore beneath her breath. Rot and curse these stubborn Scots! “Ye’ll be takin’ one when the MacKinnon returns, and no’ a minute sooner, lass.”

  Page didn’t dare wait for Iain’s return. “And when might that be?” she asked. “Where has he gone?”

  “To clean up ye’re mess,” the old man said cryptically, standing stubbornly in her way, arms akimbo.

  “You are a mulish, bearish old man,” she told him angrily. “Why is it you persist in plaguing me so? Isn’t it enough that you stole me away from my home, and now keep me in fetters and abuse me with your mouths? You would have me live in filth, as well? I am not accustomed to sleeping upon the dirty ground and I need a bath!”

  “Ach, lass, I dinna wish to trouble myself wi’ ye, although for some godforsaken reason, the MacKinnon is thinkin’ to keep ye for himself.” He thumped his chest with a hand. “I’ll be seein’ that he does.”

  Canny old man. Despite that they trembled, Page’s hands went to her hips in challenge. “Aye? And where would I go, prithee?”

  He didn’t reply, and Page stood there glaring at him, inviting him to answer. Of a certain, she was going to escape this morning, even if it killed her.

  Last eve she’d thought to never have another opportunity, but this morning one had presented itself like a miracle from Heaven. She’d been only half-awake when the MacKinnon had risen and unfettered himself from her, but in enough of a weary stupor that she’d not bothered to open her eyes. Nor had she dared to face him. And then he had gone—to who knew where. There was no sign of him yet and she felt desperate to leave before he returned—before he could look at her with that knee-weakening, soul-stirring glance.

  And leave, she would—if ever she could simply convince the old fool standing before her that a bath was a perfectly harmless pursuit.

  “Certainly you cannot be afeared of me?” she taunted.

  Still he didn’t respond, merely continued to eye her as though she were some evil sorceress about to perform her witchery and vanish before his eyes. Page might have laughed at his vigilant expression and ready stance, save that she was too angry to indulge in even a shred of good humor.

  “By the saints! You cannot be afeared of me! Wherever should I go?” she persisted. Her eyes scanned the immediate horizon, once again surveying her greatest vantage spot—where the forest trees hung like curious ol
d men over the lake. Their foliaged limbs brushed the water’s edge, as though stretching downward for a cool drink. It offered a temporary hideaway.

  If she could only get herself into the lake.

  The horses were also tethered there.

  It was perfect.

  It was time to play upon their vanity, Page decided, and her brow lifted in challenge. “Certainly the lot of you... how many?” She peered about, counting, and then turned to Angus. “I count at least a score of you,” she told him. “You should be able to manage a single weakly woman?”

  “Fie!” Angus exclaimed.

  Dougal piped in. “Ach, Angus, surely we can manage a single weakly woman?”

  Page nearly laughed aloud at the question in his tone.

  “Fie!” Angus exclaimed once more.

  “Be damned. I dinna see anything amiss wi’ allowin’ the lass to wash,” Broc interjected, stepping into their midst, and eyeing her knowingly. Page was almost grateful to the great behemoth. Almost, for then he added, “I, for one, would be verra pleased if she bathed herself, dirty as she is. Can no’ ye smell that Sassenach stench?” he asked, and laughed.

  Page narrowed her gaze at him, thinking he should say a prayer of thanks that come nightfall she’d not be present to box his ears into oblivion. She’d like to stomp him into the ground with booted feet. Arrogant Scot! She’d certainly had more than her fill of the lot of them. She cast Broc a furious glance and then said, turning to address a mottle-faced Angus, “Follow me into the water, if you please... if, in fact, you do not trust me...”

  “Aww, verra well, let her bathe herself,” Lagan decreed, waving a hand at the lot of them. “But do follow her in and dinna let her oot o’ your sight.”

  Page met Lagan’s gaze and shuddered, for she could tell he did not like her, nor did he trust her. In truth, were he to have it his own way, he’d not afford her any opportunities, she was sure.