Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “I’ll no’ be puttin’ him on my horse,” Dougal interjected, his tone fraught with disgust, his expression revealing as much.

  “Neither mine,” announced Kerwyn. “Turns my belly just to look at him.”

  Broc’s too, apparently, Page noted, a little bemused by the behemoth’s reaction to the dead man. In truth, he hadn’t even come nigh to the body, and still he knelt away from the gathered crowd, retching and making the most ungodly sounds Page had ever heard in her entire life. Although she was loath to intrude, she wandered near to him. “May I help?”

  Broc seemed momentarily bewildered by her question. “You wish tae help me spill my guts?” he answered, peering up at her, frowning a little. “Why should ye wish to help me, wench?”

  Page shrugged and gave him a slight smile. “Because you’re not so very rotten as you think.”

  “Aye?” he asked. “Says who?”

  Page’s smile deepened despite his glare. “Says me,” she replied pertly. “My thanks to you for trying to help me this morn... Broc.”

  “Sassenach wench,” he replied, though without much heat.

  “Behemoth,” she said, grinning.

  He ceded the tiniest hint of a smile.

  “Aye, well... for all the guid it did me,” he quipped. “Ye dinna get verra far, did ye.”

  “Nay.” Page’s cheeks heated at the memory of her capture at his laird’s hands. She felt in that instant as though every guilty pleasure was written there upon her face. What must he think of her? What must they all think of her? She really didn’t want to know. “I-I did not,” she lamented, and then ventured once again, “May I... that is to say... are you feeling better now?” Somehow, it suddenly seemed important to her that they not think of her unkindly—not even the surly behemoth kneeling so pitifully before her.

  His brows collided into a fierce frown. Dinna fash yourself’ o’er me,” he snapped. His gaze skidded away. “Go away now, leave me be.”

  Moody wretch. Page glowered down at him, but didn’t persist. She moved again toward the gathered crowd, thinking ’twas no wonder these Scots were forever at war. Churlish beasts.

  “Ach, he stinks,” Kermichil said, grimacing. Though he didn’t look away, Page noted. He stared, seeming fascinated by the body sprawled before them. It seemed morbid curiosity kept them all rooted to the spot.

  “He doesna e’en look like Ranald anymore,” Lagan lamented, shaking his head in a gesture of regret. And yet his eyes revealed nothing of that sentiment as they shifted to Page. Only the depths of his anger lingered. He not only blamed her, she realized, he loathed her. She didn’t know why, but he disturbed her—for more reason than that he simply didn’t like her. It was something more. She shuddered, unnerved by the look he gave her, and turned away.

  “Poor forsaken Ranald,” Angus said gruffly.

  “He’s no’ riding wi’ me either,” Kermichil interjected.

  “Puir mon” someone else chimed in.

  “Aye, puir, puir mon,” came the echo.

  There was a long interval of weighted silence as they all stared, nodding in agreement.

  “Iain... mayhap we should leave him?” suggested Dougal.

  Iain’s brows drew together. “Nay,” he said at once. “He’s deservin’ of a proper funeral. We’ll no’ be leaving him here to rot.”

  “Weel...” Dougal put forth, a little fretfully. He scratched his head. “I’ll no’ be ridin’ wi’ him either, that’s for certain.” He peered nervously up at Iain. “I dinna think I could bear it,” he added quickly.

  Page didn’t particularly blame him. She didn’t think she could either. But her brows knit. Someone would have to take him. Iain would ride with his son, and he’d given her Ranald’s mount to use for herself—against his men’s wishes, it seemed. Nor did they appear overly appreciative of the fact that he’d given her his own saddle and harness after Ranald’s had been rendered unusable in the fall. They said naught, but she knew by the looks upon their faces that the decision curdled their bellies.

  “Nor I,” Kerwyn joined in saying.

  “Nor me,” Kerr said, grimacing.

  “Nor Broc either,” Angus announced with no small measure of disgust. “Ach, look at him over there, pukin’ his guts like a wee bairn! For a muckle lad he has the weakest belly this auld mon’s e’er seen!”

  “Ranald’s coming wi’ us,” Iain maintained.

  Lagan remained silent, staring at Page.

  “Ach, Iain!” Dougal began. He stamped his foot like a petulant child. “I dinna want to ride wi’ him!”

  “What would ye have me tell his minnie, Dougal?” Iain asked. His jaw tautened in anger—the muscle working there the only evidence of his carefully controlled temper. “Mayhap ye would like t’ have the pleasure of explaining how we forsook her only son to the wolves and the vultures?”

  Dougal’s face reddened. He shook his head, hanging it shamefully, and stared disconcertedly at the foot he stabbed into a trampled patch of muir grass.

  Page could see in their faces the aversion they felt over riding with a dead man—she couldn’t blame them. It was a loathsome prospect, one she wasn’t particularly keen upon herself, but she certainly didn’t wish to see Iain angry. Years of trying to avoid her father’s tempers made her yearn to speak up. One look at the putrid body kept her tongue stilled.

  “Ach, but we’re a miserable lot,” Angus began, the tone of his voice making Page cringe where she stood. “A miserable lot o’—”

  “I-I’ll ride with him,” Page suddenly blurted, startling even herself with the offer. She regretted the outburst at once.

  Every gaze snapped up and fixed upon her.

  Ranald’s piteous state was partially her doing, she reasoned frantically. And mayhap she would please Iain by keeping the peace for him? Perchance even gain his men’s acceptance by saving them Ranald’s undesired company?

  Although these were not her people, she rationalized, she would need endure their company until her father showed himself to claim her. And he would come, she told herself. He must come. Mayhap he was rallying his men even now?

  “I... I... do not... mind,” she lied with some difficulty. But the disgust was surely there to be seen upon her face.

  Like that first night, they all stared at her, mouths slightly agape, saying naught, only this time Page refrained from adding her acid wit. As she watched, their faces reddened, some of their expressions grew incredulous, some dubious, and she backed away a full pace. She cast a glance at Iain and found him scowling fiercely. Oh, dear, what had she done? Had she committed some cardinal Scots sin with her offer?

  She met Iain’s eyes, searching.

  Iain stared at Page, blinking, scarce able to believe his ears.

  He’d been about to speak up and resign himself to carry Ranald’s body when she’d beaten him to it. That she would be willing to subject herself to such an unpleasant task for her own kindred’s sake would have stunned him well enough already—particularly as his own men, Ranald’s friends, were all loath to bear up to the responsibility. That she would be willing to do so for Ranald’s sake was inconceivable.

  Judging by the expression upon his men’s faces, they were every one as stupefied by her unanticipated offer as was he. If he weren’t already so provoked by the lot of them, he would have laughed at the response she’d managed to elicit from them. She was priceless. In that instant he admired her immensely—wanted to draw her into his arms and kiss her soundly upon those delightful lips of hers.

  And that’s not all he wanted to do to her. She was quite endearing standing there, looking so beautifully anxious, her wide brown eyes so wary and yet forewarning. Her dress had, without doubt, seen better days, and yet it didn’t matter. Upon her it might have been made of spun gold. She wore it exquisitely. Tattered as it was, the dress clung to her every curve like gossamer webs to bare flesh. Her hair. He suddenly wished he’d taken the time to unplait it and thread his fingers through the sunlit length. Ther
e would be another time, he decided and he suddenly felt grateful to her father. Aye, for she was a gift, not a burden. He gave Page a wink, and her tension visibly eased.

  “Weel, now,” Angus began, his face screwing thoughtfully.

  “I will take him, Da,” Malcom offered eagerly, tugging at his father’s breacan. “I’m a big boy. I can take him! Aren’t I, Angus?” He turned to look at the surly old Scot.

  Angus’s brows lifted. “Ye’re a muckle lad, all right, but ye’re no—”

  “Aye, let her carry Ranald,” Dougal broke in furiously. “Why should we give up a horse for her? ’Tisna our fault her Da dinna want her!”

  Page froze at the declaration, her gaze flying to Dougal. For an instant she wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly. The suddenly wary expressions upon the faces staring at her told her differently. Her heart twisted as she turned to meet Iain’s gaze. “What... my father did not want me?”

  Iain shook his head. “Dinna listen to Dougal, lass.” But she saw the truth in his eyes, though he denied it.

  “Did my father not want me?” she persisted, her body tense, her breath bated as she awaited his response.

  He stood silent, unblinking, staring, refusing to answer, and Page saw in his expression the one thing she could not bear. Pity. She saw his pity, and her heart filled with fury—fury at her father for discarding her so easily, fury at Iain MacKinnon for lying to her—fury at herself for wanting something that could never be.

  “I’ll take the poor wretch,” Broc announced, elbowing his way into the gathering. “I’ll take him. It isna right to let the girl bear the burden. What’s wrong wi’ the lot o’ ye anyhoo?” He glared at Dougal particularly, and pointed out, “We’re his friends.”

  The silence that fell between them might have lasted an instant, or an eternity, Page didn’t know. She felt benumbed.

  “I’ll take him,” Kerwyn relented, shoving Dougal angrily.

  “Nay... I should do it,” Kermichil suggested, casting a glower in Dougal’s direction.

  “Mayhap I should,” Kerr yielded, and he, too, gave Dougal a fierce glare. “Look at what ye’ve gone and done,” he said, casting a glance in Page’s direction.

  Shamed into it, Dougal relented. “Oh, verra well! I’ll carry the stinkin’ body.”

  “Nay! I said I would take him,” Broc argued. “Ach, but ye’ve gone and done enough already, mewling knave.”

  Page was scarcely aware of the glance Broc cast in her direction, but she felt his pity like a mountain of ash, blackening her mood as surely as had she wallowed in it. She didn’t fool herself into believing the behemoth cared for her. Nay, though he felt sorry for her. And that was the last thing she wished from any of them.

  If she hadn’t been so staggered by Dougal’s disclosure, she might have been amused by the fact that they were all fighting now over who would carry Ranald. Brawling Scots. They weren’t happy unless they were fighting. She moved away from the dispute, wanting only to weep, but refusing to shed a single tear.

  Her father didn’t want her.

  Had he refused outright? Or simply refused to deal with Iain? Or wasn’t that really the same thing?

  Iain pitied her. He must. Surely they all did.

  “Come now, lass,” Iain began, coming up behind her and placing a hand gently upon her shoulder.

  Page shrugged away from him, infused with anger. “Don’t touch me,” she spat, and spun to face him. “How dare you lie to me! How dare you!”

  He was silent in the face of her accusation, his expression pensive as he stood staring.

  “Why did you lie to me?” she asked him sadly, and then regretted the question at once. She knew why, of course. He pitied her. She was the wretched, unwanted daughter of his enemy—and he pitied her. “What did he say—my father?” she demanded to know. “How did he refuse me?”

  “Ach, lass, does it matter?”

  Her fury mounted with the reminder that he could not even say her name. “Aye, it matters. Aye! Did you not believe I had a right to know?”

  She suddenly recalled the moment he’d come riding into the clearing with his son, the way he’d looked at her, and so much made sense. The looks upon all their faces—the shock when the MacKinnon had declared his intent to carry her home. The resentment they all seemed to feel for her. Broc aiding her in her escape...

  Page could scarce bear the thought of it all.

  He seemed to consider her question, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He shook his head. “It matters not, lass... Ye’ll have a home wi’ us.”

  Page made a woeful keening sound, and her throat closed with a tide of emotion. She swallowed. “Like some stray animal brought in out of the rain?” She swallowed again, and let anger become a balm for her pain. “I think not. What if I have no wish to make my home with you? Why would I care to live amongst a rude band of Scots who cannot even seem to get along with themselves?” She didn’t care if she was being cruel. She wanted to be—wanted to lash out and wound them, as she was wounded. That he had the audacity to stand there and seem unfazed by her churlish remark only made her all the angrier. All this time he’d known how her father felt. All this time he must have pitied her. Somehow, it blasphemed even their kisses, for how could he have wanted her? Even her own father did not love her. She couldn’t bear it.

  “I had a right to know,” Page persisted.

  The MacKinnon stood silent, his stance unyielding, his lips tight with displeasure.

  “Did he refuse you outright?”

  Still he didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink, merely stared.

  “Did my father refuse you with his mouth?”

  Iain turned away, his jaw taut, and shook his head with what Page perceived to be disgust. “Aye,” he said. “He did, lass.”

  Page felt the very life leave her suddenly, all her hopes, everything. Her legs would have buckled beneath her, but there was nowhere to lean, save her own two feet. As always. Her voice sounded frail even to her own ears. “What did he say?”

  He turned to look at her, seeming to study her a moment, and then said, “He simply refused, is all. He said naught.” And then he turned away, as though he could scarce bear to look at her.

  “I see,” she said, and somehow knew he was keeping the worst from her. Her father’s cruelty? Hah! She knew it already, didn’t he realize? She understood better than he did how brutal her father’s words could be. How many times had he taunted her that she was no man’s daughter? Certainly not his own? That she couldn’t possibly be his own flesh and blood? How many times had he told her she was unlovable? Despicable?

  More times than Page could recount.

  She wanted in that moment to tell Iain to fly to the devil—that she didn’t need him, or his charity, but it would be a ridiculous thing to claim.

  She did need him.

  What were her choices, after all? To live here in the woods with the beasts? To go crawling upon her knees to a king who would as likely spit in her face as not? Nay, she had no options, save for the one Iain MacKinnon was offering her. And in truth, rather than feel grateful to him, she loathed him for it, and she wasn’t even certain why. Because he’d witnessed her shame? Because he’d made her feel wanted? Only to turn around and discover that he didn’t truly want her at all? That no one did. The knowledge filled Page with a grief she’d never allowed herself to feel.

  Somewhere, in the dusty, cobwebbed recesses of her heart, she had dared to believe that Iain had been enticed by her—that he’d taken her because he’d wanted her, as he said. Not so. He’d merely pitied her—had been forced to bring her along solely because he had a conscience. It was as simple as that.

  Remembering the bloom in her hand, she opened her fist, only now realizing she’d held it so tightly closed, and stared at the crushed crocus. She was too disgusted with herself to even feel chagrined that she’d held on to it for so long. It was faded now, its petals worn and veined.

  Pursing her lips in self-dis
gust, she tossed the blossom to the ground, turned, and walked away, not daring a glance backward at Iain MacKinnon lest he spy her shame upon her face.

  The entire lot of them were coming near to blows now, still squabbling over who would carry Puir Ranald. Page heard them, and yet heard naught at all. They were fickle, fickle souls, these Scots. Let them kill themselves over the dubious honor. She no longer had intentions of carrying Puir, Puir Ranald! Poor accursed Ranald could carry himself for all she cared. She had half an inclination to go find the nearest rock and sit down upon it until she withered away.

  Chapter 22

  Iain had to restrain himself from going after her. Keeping him from it was the knowledge that any words he might think to utter would be wholly inadequate to ease the incredible sorrow he saw reflected there in her eyes.

  His gaze was drawn downward to the crumpled crocus blossom she had discarded. It was abused beyond repair, its petals folded and distorted, but the fact that she had kept the memento told him it was somehow important to her, and just as he had felt compelled to pluck the blossom in the first place, he felt bound now to retrieve it and save it for her. He bent, lifting it as gingerly as his big, unwieldy hands could manage, and then placed it within the folds of his breacan.

  “I like her, Da,” his son said in a whisper, appearing suddenly at his side.

  Iain glanced down at the smaller, begrimed image of himself and smiled. “Me too,” he said, and patted a hand over the crown of Malcom’s head.

  “But she has a verra mean Da,” Malcom proclaimed. “I dinna like him at all.”

  Iain’s gaze returned to Page. “Aye, son, that she does.” He stared pensively, thinking of her callous father, only half listening to his son. “I dinna like him either,” he said.