Like a painter in love with his labors, he left no part of her face untouched by his divining brush, his delicate kisses. It seemed to Page that her very soul would rise out of her body and meld with his.
Her lashes flew wide with the realization, and she stared into his fevered eyes, her heart hammering fiercely.
Iain knelt before her, his expression sober.
She’d awakened something inside him that had been dormant for far too long, and now it seemed they were connected in a manner he would never forswear. Like a besotted youth, he reached out and plucked a bright yellow crocus from the grass beside her and handed it to her. She accepted the blossom, and he buried his face within the crook of her neck, embracing her.
From this moment forward, she was his. And he vowed, upon his life, that he’d never let her rue this day.
Chapter 20
While the rest of them waited about like idiots, fiddling their fingers, the two of them had been cuddling like fools.
It galled him.
If he’d not witnessed the sight of them together with his very own eyes, he’d never have believed it.
When Iain should have beaten the impertinent witch, he returns, instead, cradling her within his arms while she slept like a wee bairn. After all the trouble she’d stirred, he’d half expected, half hoped, his brother would send her flying back to her father. Or at the very minimum, that their long absence meant he’d taken it upon himself to return her to Aldergh, dumping her like so much offal into the castle ditch.
It was no more than she deserved.
Instead, Iain had been picking crocus blossoms for the Sassenach. She clutched one still within her fist whilst all the while she slept.
Ach, naught was going as planned—naught at all!
By this time, he’d hoped to be rid of Iain’s whelp once and for all. And the wench—she never should have become a problem to begin with—rot Iain and his bleeding heart.
He sat, watching Kerwyn and Dougal load Ranald’s still-soaked body upon the horse he’d intended for Malcom, and could feel his face burn with impotent rage. They’d had to fish the corpse out of the loch and then rewrap him, and only now were strapping him on once again. It seemed the lass was to ride with Iain, Malcom with auld Angus, and now he was helpless to do anything but stand by and watch and seethe. At the very least, he’d hoped Page and Malcom might ride together so they would both benefit from his handiwork.
But he loathed feeling this way—helpless—despised Iain’s guts for it, too. Just like his father, he was, thinking himself so noble for the sacrifices he made.
Iain’s Da, the cur, had sacrificed Lagan—without so much as a backward thought.
Well... he intended to right that wrong soon enough—rid himself of Malcom first, and then of Iain, and then he would lead the clan himself.
It was his right after having suffered in silence all these years.
Had the old man truly expected that his deceit would never be discovered? Had he anticipated that Lagan would simply accept the lie so glibly when the truth was at last made known? That he should forget he’d been left, as a result of his father’s murder and the ultimate deception, without a mother, or a father?
Daft old man. In trying to save his son from the repulsive truth—that his wife had dared to love another man—a MacLean at that—he’d managed to strip Lagan of his birthright. Aye, for while Iain lamented over never having known the mother who had once suckled him at her breast, Lagan had truly never known her at all. He had not even the right to grieve for her openly. He had only snatches of her memory from Glenna, for not even Glenna would speak of the sister she’d lost so shamefully—not even to the son she’d died giving birth to. Lagan. Not Iain.
Iain, at least, had known her for those two years—for two years Lagan might have plucked out his eyes to have had the same luxury—and his brother had not the right to grieve, whether he recalled her or nay.
Poor wretched Iain... his father’s revered son... While Iain had been assiduously trained to take the lead of his clan... Lagan had been naught more than a discarded kinsman.
How he’d envied the old laird’s attentions to his son. How he’d craved it. Never knowing...
He’d not even been told of his true father until he’d been too old to feel anything more than bitterness. But that was all he’d ever been told—that his father had been a deceiving MacLean, no more—and never once had the MacLeans acknowledged him either. Never once.
It had been Glenna, the aunt he’d once called mother, who’d finally revealed the connivance after all. Her own guilt had been great—and rightly so. She should never have contrived to deprive Lagan of his rightful life.
Curse them, every one, for he’d been robbed by the clansmen he’d loved—clansmen who’d favored the old laird more than they had the lonely child he had been. It seemed that every last MacKinnon had conspired to keep the dirty secret of Lagan’s birth. None of them had come forth, not a one.
And now those who would recall were mostly dead, but for Glenna and a scarce few more. They too would pay. And then... when the guilty were gone from his sight, he could learn at last to live—never forgive, but to put the past behind him once and for all.
The jest would be upon auld man MacKinnon—may he turn in his grave—for in trying to spare his perfect little Iain, he’d burdened his boy with a lifetime of guilt over their mother’s death. Loathsome fool! It had been his own birth that had killed her, not his half brother’s. And yet Iain lived every day of his miserable life thinking he’d been the one to rob their mother of her last breath of life. But let him think so—the misguided bampot. He could take his guilt to the grave, for all Lagan cared—that, along with the guilt he suffered over Mairi’s death. Judas, he’d hoped she would die on her childbed. He’d wanted her to die so badly—had tried so hard to make it come to pass.
Instead, she’d tossed herself from the accursed window, and had ruined Lagan’s chance with her youngest sister. Stupid shrew. His dire warnings against Iain had been meant to frighten her, make her life miserable, not send her out upon a ledge.
And yet... he must admit... she had succeeded in wounding the louse in a way that might never have been possible elsewise, for Iain had not once, since Mairi’s death, dared to hold another woman so dear.
Until now.
He smiled, for this was simply one more way to see his brother bleed before he died.
His one dilemma now... to decide who should depart the world sooner... the son... or the lover.
Mayhap both.
Together.
* * *
Long after Page awoke from her slumber, she clung to the pretense of sleep, not quite able to face Iain.
Nor could she deal with the accusations from his men as Iain returned with her in his arms. She overheard their grievances, their voiced indignation over her foul treatment of poor Ranald, and felt more than a twinge of guilt over the havoc she’d wreaked. Certainly she’d not meant to dump the cadaver in the lake. It had been an accident, no more. But her heart filled with joy to hear Iain become her champion. He’d commanded them all to silence, and with his unsolicited defense, a gladness flowered in her heart.
If the truth be known, more than aught, she didn’t wish to leave the refuge of his arms as yet. He held her like a babe, his strong arms enfolding her within an embrace that felt more like Heaven than even those puffy white clouds could possibly.
Nay... she didn’t want to wake... wanted to cling to him always.
To this illusion of love.
She felt cherished by the way he held her, the way he stroked the hair from her face. But it was an illusion, no more. She understood that well enough—just as she understood that once she opened her eyes, she would no more be his lover, but his hostage once again.
Oh, but how wonderful it had been for a time.
She would cherish the memory of their sweet kisses in her heart, remember every wonderful moment... and on those evenings when she stared out f
rom her chamber window... She would carefully unwrap the crocus she held in her hand. Although it might be faded and brittle with age, she would see it bright and yellow and kissed by dew. And she would see his face—would feel the great sweep of emotion that had twisted her heart and made a mockery of her avowal that she felt nothing for him. Aye, for in that instant, she had loved him fiercely. In that magical instant she had wanted to stay with him always. Aye, and she’d wanted him to love her.
Her throat thickened with emotion as she recalled the way he’d plucked the blossom and placed it within her hand. It was a simple gesture, one he might have performed a thousand times before, for a thousand different lovers... but this one had been for her and her alone.
She wanted to weep, but didn’t dare, lest he discover her awake.
The trail they were following veered upward, a steeper incline than any they’d traveled as yet, and Page sighed contentedly as she was forced closer to the man who would ever after haunt her dreams.
As far as she could tell, it was late afternoon.
Through the haze of her lashes, she spied ribbons of rose-red stretching across a faded blue sky. The sun bathed the heathered hills in buttery light, like a gentle mother kissing all it touched before snuffing out the light.
When the path turned steeper yet, Page dared to cling to her dubious savior, taking comfort in his strength to keep her safe. Her hand at his back took great pleasure in exploring the sinew of his flesh, the broadness of his back, her pretense of slumber affording her a boldness she would never have dared elsewise.
He was a marvelous specimen of a man, every part of him well formed. She sighed at the memory of him kneeling before her, magnificent and primeval.
The way he’d gazed at her; no one had ever looked at her just so.
His eyes... they were the sort to make a woman weak when they fell upon her in full measure. Something flittered down in her belly with the memory of his smoldering gaze. Arrogantly confident, they appraised her like one who knew what he wanted and knew instinctively how to get it. They probed for secrets, and used those secrets to ravage the heart... and tempt the body.
She shivered over the thought.
And his lips... they promised unspeakable things... promises kept with such great relish. Mercy, but he’d taken immense pleasure in it all, judging by the mischievous turn of his lips. He’d kissed her again and again with that exquisite mouth, taking more pleasure in the endeavor than it seemed possible a man could take in such a thing.
Unable to contain it, she gave a sleepy little moan, and turned to bury her face against his chest. But it was a mistake, she realized at once, for she breathed in the scent of him, and was wholly undone by it.
She wanted to stay this way forever.
But forever was an impossibility, and the moment would be over too soon. Hot tears slipped from her lashes, even though she told herself they were absurd.
How could she love a man she scarcely knew? It bewildered her certainly, but she believed she did.
Not love. Anything but love, she tried to convince herself.
So, then, why did the sting of tears persist?
And why did her heart feel suddenly so heavy… as though it were weighted with stone?
Stiffening at the delicate brush of fingers across his back, Iain peered down into Page’s sleeping face, trying to determine whether she slept or nay.
It was a lover’s caress. A sleepy lover’s caress that stirred his senses and started his pulse to pounding. He thought she might have awakened, but she didn’t open her eyes. No matter, he took pleasure in holding her. She was so light, delicate within his arms, fragile even—despite the invulnerable facade she put forth. She appeared at first sight to be as sturdy as the walls her father had erected about his stone keep, but remove a single brick, and her walls came toppling down.
She’d been exhausted after their afternoon together, so much so that she’d fallen asleep within his arms as he’d stroked the damp wisps of hair back from her face. Ach, but this he relished more than he should... the trust she’d placed in him to fall asleep within his embrace. It was a simple show of faith, one that endeared her to him more readily than even her enduring nature. It was something he’d never had from Mairi. Trust. Something he would never have dared hope for…
Instead, his wife had withdrawn from their bed to that infernal window, where she’d stood staring out into the night. He’d listened to her weeping, and watched her quiet revulsion for what had passed between them, and his heart had wept pure blood.
Once she had conceived, he’d never touched her again—nor had she desired him to by the way she so studiously avoided him. She’d carried his bairn without sharing a single whisper of him, had mourned every moment she’d nurtured his child within her womb, as though it were an abomination of her being.
His son had been magnificent.
Aye, Malcom was everything he’d ever hoped for: free of spirit and unafraid to love. It was something Iain envied of him.
And Page... he smiled at the memory of her halting acceptance of the name he’d chosen for her: Suisan. It gave him pleasure to think of her that way. Her response to him... her openhearted acceptance of his love—not mere acquiescence—was like a balm for his soul. It made him dream again, opened doors in his heart he’d never known were closed.
She wiggled away from him a bit and he reached out, never touching, but tracing the outline of her belly under his palm, imagining his babe growing there. It gave him an unexpected but fierce pleasure.
He wanted to love her, aye, but more than that, he wanted to give her his child. He’d thought his chances were all gone. All the things he’d wanted to do with Mairi and never could... place his hand to her belly, feel the first stirring of life... touch his cheek and lips to her body where it nurtured their child... lay her lovingly upon his bed every morn and every night to study the glorious changes in her body. All these things he suddenly found himself wanting with the woman lying so serenely within his arms.
It made his heart full with joy and alight with anticipation.
He had to chuckle at the look auld Angus had given him when he’d come bearing her back to camp—a mixture of outright indignation and reluctant approval. The old man had been after him long enough to get himself a woman, but Iain thought he might have favored one who was a little less vexing. He chuckled softly, for in truth, Iain might have preferred one a little less troublesome, as well.
The little termagant.
Ach, but the truth was that he loved her spirit, including her tempers, for they were evidence that her soul burned with life. No quiet, seething, mourning woman was she. Nay, she was passion incarnate, feeling everything, be it anger, or longing—and love?—to its fullest degree.
His cousin, on the contrary, had been wholly disapproving, if the look upon Lagan’s face was any indication. Too bad. Iain had long since abided by his own decisions, and it was a lifetime too late for Lagan to insinuate himself upon them. His cousin would simply have to learn to live with the Sassenach spitfire in their midst—as would the rest of them, for Iain intended to keep her.
As for himself, becoming used to her presence was an undertaking he suspected he was going to wholly enjoy.
Thoughts of his cousin brought a pensive wrinkle to his brow.
Lagan had been acting strangely of late, brooding incessantly. Ever since his quarrel with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. Mayhap he should talk to the MacLean himself—much as he was loath to—for Lagan’s sake. Mayhap there was something he could do or say to convince the man to allow Lagan to wed Mairi’s younger sister.
And mayhap not: Auld MacLean loathed the hell out of him. His mediation was more likely to drive the wedge more firmly betwixt them.
“Da! Da!”
Malcom’s shrill cry of alarm pierced his thoughts like the blow of an ax. He pivoted, heart lurching, to find his son unharmed, but pointing wildly.
“Ranald’s gettin’ away!” Malcom sho
uted. “Ranald’s gettin’ away!”
Iain’s brows drew together at his son’s hue and cry. How the hell could Ranald do that, dead as he was? Following the direction of Malcom’s pointed finger, he caught sight of the crisis that held his son’s concern. Ranald’s body had somehow snapped free of its bindings—nay, not the bindings, he realized, upon closer inspection. The harness had snapped, and while Ranald was tethered still, the saddle was slipping free. Even as he fully absorbed Ranald’s predicament, Ranald broke free suddenly, and began tumbling down the steep hillside, losing the saddle after the first violent turns. The tartan about him unraveled with every subsequent roll.
Ranald must have earned himself one monstrous curse during his lifetime. Iain doubted a dead man had ever had such misfortune.
A few of his men vaulted from their saddles, and for the second time in the space of a single day, went in pursuit of Ranald’s errant body.
Iain cursed roundly as he peered down, frowning, into Page’s blinking eyes.
She was awake, staring up at him. “I didn’t do it,” she swore at once.
Chapter 21
There wasn’t a grimace-free expression amongst the faces staring down at Ranald’s battered body. Between the wolves, the plunge into the lake, his wet blankets, and the roll down the hill, Ranald was, without a doubt, a bit worse for his wear.
Page stood silently amongst the gathered, her face screwing in revulsion at the sight of the body lying so twisted before them. Her guilt was tremendous, for she knew she shared some measure of blame for the poor man’s misfortune. Her father had always said she could tax a dead man’s soul, and it seemed he spoke true, for this particular dead man was about as taxed as a soul could be.
Even so, she wasn’t about to take all the blame. She certainly hadn’t killed the bloke to begin with—neither had she set the wolves against him. She had, however, dumped him into the lake during her escape. And most certainly his wet blankets hadn’t done his appearance any service. Forsooth, he’d not been the most comely fellow she’d ever set eyes upon to begin with, but now he was fairly grotesque. She wrinkled her nose and turned away. It was a very good thing she had such a strong fortitude.
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