Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  They continued the northward ride mostly in silence, but for Malcom’s discourse. When the winds lifted, Malcom turned and buried his little face against her bosom, and Page sheltered him as best she could, singing to him to pass the time. Amazingly, she’d never thought a body could withstand such frigid temperatures, but while Malcom seemed ready enough to snuggle against her, she was the only one left shivering.

  Mayhap it was the emptiness within her that made her feel so chilled?

  Absurdly, the thought that Iain MacKinnon pitied her made her feel more depleted even than her father’s betrayal.

  Foolish girl, she berated herself.

  How could you have possibly believed he could love you?

  Nay, she hadn’t expected love, she told herself, and hadn’t gotten it. So why should she feel now so disheartened?

  She told herself she didn’t know why, but she did.

  * * *

  The weather grew more foul the farther north they traveled.

  They awakened the next morning to a fine, cold mist that no sooner settled upon the flesh than it began seeping down into the bones. And still Page was the only one shivering. These Scotsmen surrounding her seemed wholly immune to the savage weather they faced.

  It seemed remarkable to Page that it could be so cold when the sun shone brightly. But it was. And it was a cold that benumbed the flesh and paralyzed the body. They gained an early start, covering more ground than it seemed conceivable for the horses to cover, when her own fragile bones seemed frozen and incapable of motion.

  When it ceased to rain at last she had no chance to rejoice in the fact, for within mere instants of the rain’s departure came the snow. Stunned, she put out her hand to be certain she wasn’t imagining it, and was stupefied to find white feathery flakes alighting upon her sun-pinkened flesh—such fine flakes, they melted upon contact, but snow flakes, they were.

  And it was in that moment, as she scrutinized the MacKinnon men, that she realized what remarkable fortitudes they each possessed. Not a one of them had complained, even though more than half of them wore no shoes. Bare legged and bare of feet, with only their breacans to buffer them from the piercing wind and cold, they rode with their spines rigid and their heads high and proud.

  Not Page. She, on the other hand, while she dared not voice her discomfort, was huddled over Malcom, trying desperately to warm her body. Her feet were bare as well, though she did not endure it so nobly. Her distress must have been evident, for Iain removed his breacan and approached her, throwing the thick woolen blanket as a mantle over her shoulders. She was loath to take his charity, but she didn’t dare refuse it. As it was, were it not for Malcom’s little body seated before her, she thought she would have perished long before now. Whatever the rain left untouched, the chill wind permeated.

  Broc, too, came and offered his blanket, unsettling Page, and making her eyes burn with tears. She tried to refuse him, but he held out his hand resolutely.

  “For the lad,” he said low, nodding and urging her to take it.

  Swallowing her pride, for Malcom lay sleeping against her bosom with nary a single shiver—she knew the gesture was for her—but she accepted the blanket, her eyes stinging horribly.

  Broc remained at her side a moment longer, making idle talk about his dog, Merry Bells, and reminding Page belatedly of his unfortunate affliction. She stared down at the blanket she’d placed over Malcom and herself, and endeavored to hide her grimace of disgust. She fought the urge to fling the blanket back at the fair-faced behemoth, but was reluctant to offend him. Poor child would likely end up with fleas now—and herself, as well. She cast a glance at Broc to find him scratching his head, and decided to help rid him once and for all of his infestation.

  For much of the day Broc remained by her side, regaling her with tales of the world’s most-clever dog, until Iain returned to ride beside her. A single glance from his laird sent Broc on his way. And then once again Page rode in silence, for Iain didn’t deign to speak to her. He wouldn’t even look at her.

  Though she knew it was ludicrous, she was still angry with him—couldn’t help herself. In withholding the truth, he had, after all, merely had the audacity to consider her feelings. She should have been grateful, but somehow couldn’t gather the sentiment. She wanted to cut out his tongue for lying to her—for keeping the truth from her. It was the same as a lie, wasn’t it? She wanted to slap his mouth for daring to kiss her—for having the gall to make her feel cherished, when she dared not feel anything at all.

  But more than aught else, she wanted to fling herself into his arms and weep until the last tear was shed. She wanted him to hold her, kiss her, love her. She wanted to forget herself within his arms, let him carry her again to that sweet place where only the body mattered, the heart did not—and she wanted to stay there for all of eternity, never to return.

  She wanted to force him to acknowledge her, to look at her again as he once had—not with that piteous expression that made her heart ache and made her want to gouge out his eyes.

  As ever, it seemed, she wanted too much, for Iain MacKinnon continued to ride along beside her in silence, casting only the occasional brooding glance.

  * * *

  He was running out of time.

  It wouldn’t be long now before Iain began to unravel the tangled thread of clues.

  And where would that leave him? With nothing once again—aye and he’d die before he’d allow it to happen.

  Nay, he’d have to accelerate his plans, make the most of every opportunity. The troublesome wench had managed to set them all to rights without even lifting her voice in censure. She’d had them all scurrying with shame o’er the honor of carrying Ranald’s stinkin’ body.

  He hadn’t offered, and he wondered now if Iain noticed. He cast a furtive glance at the laird of the MacKinnons, and found him brooding still, his expression black as his Da’s heart had been. He hadn’t said much since Ranald’s tumble. Not to anyone—not even to his Sassenach woman, although he watched her every second he thought she would not spy his lovelorn glances.

  For her part, she merely sat there, her expressions all-too-easily read: a mixture of longing, fury, and pain. Aye, well, he’d put the witch out of her misery afore long.

  The thought brought an anticipatory smile to his lips.

  Chapter 24

  Soaring upon a gently sloping, heathered hill, Chreagach Mhor seemed an enchanted place. Not even Malcom’s tales, pride filled though they were, could have prepared Page for the rustic, fantastical beauty of the stone sentinel upon the hilltop. The sight of it stole her breath away.

  As cool as the weather remained high in these hills, the heather bloomed a brilliant violet against a vivid carpet of green. Scattered across the lush landscape, rugged stones stood like proud sentries to guard the tower. Small thatch-roofed buildings spattered the hillside. The rounded donjon itself was like no other donjon Page had ever set eyes upon. The structure rose against a twilight sky, a sleek, tapering grayish silhouette against the darkening horizon.

  She held her breath as they climbed the hill toward the high tower, her expression one of awe. It was a vision of incomparable beauty, nothing at all like the ugly stone fortress that was Aldergh.

  Built solely for defense, Aldergh was a monstrosity, a scabrous creation that sullied the beauty of the English meadow upon which it was seated.

  This place, this rugged fortress settled high upon a violet mantle, with its visible high windows, was like a majestic suzerain reigning over the landscape.

  As she watched in awe, kith and kin appeared from the thatch-roofed dwellings, and gathered anxiously along the single worn path that led to the donjon itself. With craned necks and murmured voices they awaited the cavalcade.

  Malcom’s animated voice and Iain’s ensuing laughter drew Page’s attention to father and son riding beside her. His brooding countenance had vanished, replaced with an expression of supreme pleasure. Father and son seemed to forget her in their mome
nt of homecoming. Page didn’t care. Their joy was infectious.

  His people waited with hushed voices.

  Knowing instinctively what it was his people sought to know, Iain suddenly lifted his son from before him upon the saddle and seated him high upon his shoulders. Arms flailing, Malcom shouted to his kinfolk, a gleeful Gaelic greeting, and Page found herself smiling over his exuberant display.

  Caught up in their exhilaration, Page blinked away the sting of tears. Iain’s laughter at his son’s excitement made her heart swell with pride.

  What must it feel like to be so loved?

  To love so much in return?

  So constricted was her chest suddenly, Page could scarce take in a breath. In profile, Iain MacKinnon’s smile was stunning, but when he suddenly turned to look at her and winked, she thought her heart would leap out from her breast.

  “What d’ ye think, lass?” he asked.

  Page swallowed. She shook her head, unable to respond with her heart so firmly entrenched within her throat.

  “Ach, lass,” he said, and maneuvered his mount nearer. Gripping Malcom’s legs with a big, gentle hand, he leaned as far toward her as he was able to with his son wriggling high atop his shoulders. “Dinna look so glum,” he bade her, smiling. “They’ll no’ bite, mo chridhe.”

  Page wasn’t so sure. She lifted a brow, telling him so without words.

  He chuckled and turned to Angus, “Stay wi’ her, Angus,” he commanded his man.

  The two shared an indecipherable look, making Page feel as though she’d missed something of import. She tried to remember what Iain had said, and couldn’t. Auld Angus nodded, and Page watched, still contemplating their silent exchange, as Iain rode to the fore of his men.

  Angus watched him as well, she noted, his expression one of astonished bemusement. “My heart, di’ ye say?” the old man asked Iain, and shook his head. He cast Page a meaningful glance, his lips curving softly as he turned away.

  His heart, what? Did his heart ail him? Page wondered.

  Although she could scarce share Angus’s newfound mirth, she couldn’t suppress her own smile at the obvious clamor father and son elicited merely with their presence. She never would have guessed by the casual ease with which they all treated each other on the journey home, nor by the way they seemed so inclined to quarrel amongst themselves. While it was apparent they respected the MacKinnon and yielded to him, they were unafraid to voice their convictions and stand apart. Seeing the furor over his return, it was more than evident these people valued their laird, and she couldn’t help but consider the differences between Iain and her father.

  Her father’s men walked behind him, skulking shadows ready to catch his mantle lest it fall to the ground. But when they thought there were no ears about to hear them, they disparaged him to one another. Page never blamed them. So oft they had voiced the very same sentiments she wished she had nerve enough to express.

  “Wait until you see her,” Broc said, drawing up beside her.

  “Who?” Page asked, still with a wistful sigh, her eyes drinking in the sight of Iain riding with his son perched high upon his shoulders. She had the deepest yearning suddenly to be at his side, to see the smile of pleasure he wore upon his face, to know what it felt like to be cherished as he seemed to be.

  But she did know. He’d given her the briefest taste of it whilst she was in his arms, and she wanted to be there again.

  “Merry Bells,” Broc clarified, and Page blinked, trying to determine what in the world he was speaking of.

  “She’s a verra smart dog,” he said, and Page nearly choked on a giggle. She concealed her amusement with a discreet clearing of her throat, and turned to find Angus smiling to himself. In fact, she thought she knew precisely what brought such a devilish turn to the old man’s lips. Broc was relentless in the telling of his dog tales! In truth, if she hadn’t begun to like the behemoth so blessed much, she might have choked him long ere now for his incessant rambling over his flea-bitten beast.

  Even now, he sat there, scratching his head, and searching the crowd for his dog.

  “There she is!” he said suddenly, spying the dog, and then decreed, “Watch this,”

  Page watched as he bade her. Following his gaze, she located the black and white spotted dog standing beside a young child who was busily scratching her back. Broc gave a whistle, and the dog’s ears perked at once, and then suddenly came flying.

  “Watch!” Broc demanded of her, turning to be sure she was watching. She gave him a smile and nod, and he turned again to watch his dog. Only, Merry Bells had been quicker than Broc had anticipated. Just as he turned to clap for the animal, Merry Bells leapt high into the air. Behemoth and beast met face-to-face, and Page heard the sickening crack as Broc’s nose was broken by the impact of his dog’s snout against his face. She gasped in alarm as both Broc and his animal fell yelping to the ground.

  With a startled cry, Page reined in at once to the sound of curses, and Angus’s peal of laughter. Slipping from her mount, she hurried to inspect the fallen pair. Merry Bells, for her part, seemed startled but unharmed. The dog rolled from atop Broc and scurried away, tail between her legs. Broc, his face flush with embarrassment, and his nose bleeding, simply lay upon the ground, stupefied.

  Page took pity on him and kept her mirth bridled. Without hesitation, she lifted her gown and ripped a strip from her already tattered hem and then pressed it to Broc’s bleeding nostril.

  She was scarce aware of the crowd that gathered, some laughing, but most suddenly too curious over her strange presence amongst them to do anything more than gape at the pair of them, with Broc sprawled before her upon the ground, and her ministering to his wounds.

  “Well, now, what’s this?” someone asked. “Broc’s got himself a woman!” someone else shouted.

  “Broc’s got himself a woman?” another echoed, and the crowd suddenly began to close in around them.

  “I’ll be hanged!” someone decreed, laughter in his voice. “No wonder puir Merry Bells just aboot took your nose off, ye cheatin’ fool Ho! Though I canna blame ye! She’s a sight bonnier than Merry Bells!”

  Merry Bells sidled into the circle at that moment, shimmying beneath legs to reach her master. She came wagging her tail, casting a black-eyed glance in Page’s direction, before scurrying over to Broc. The dog lapped his face hesitantly at first, and then eagerly, whining. Tail perking and wagging, she seemed to forget everything but her precious master in that moment.

  “Looks to me like Broc’ll be sharing his bed wi’ two she-wolves tonight.”

  Another round of bawdy laughter followed that remark, and Page’s cheeks flamed.

  All of a sudden the gathering parted as Iain MacKinnon came toward her, his look dark and his stride full of purpose.

  Without a word, he bent low. Casting angry glances at his men, he snatched Page up by the waist and tossed her unceremoniously over his shoulders. “She’ll no’ be sharing Broc’s bed,” he declared to one and all, and then he marched away, with Page clinging to his shoulders for dear life.

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  Open-mouthed stares followed them.

  Page’s cheeks burned hot. “While I am grateful for the deliverance,” she remarked rather flippantly, pounding him on the back for emphasis, “you might have gone about this with a little more civility!”

  Aye, he might have, Iain acknowledged, though he’d lost his composure watching her with Broc. Ach, it wasn’t so much that she’d tended him so solicitously—aye, but it was! And still he might have dealt with that had the talk not turned toward bedding Broc. The image had wholly unsettled him, and he’d found himself handing Malcom into Glenna’s capable arms and marching toward them. He’d be hanged if he’d let them mistake who she was.

  She was his.

  He wasn’t sure, precisely, at which moment he’d decided such a thing—whether it was in the instant after their loving, or after seeing her ride so companionably beside Broc all afternoon
, speaking low and laughing softly as would lovers together. Never in his life had he felt such a stab of covetousness. Like some jealous beau, he’d had a difficult time keeping himself from maneuvering his mount betwixt the two, and commanding Broc away from her. Amazing, in such short time she’d managed to win Broc’s favor—the others, as well, with the exception of a few. He could tell by the way they looked upon her, and in the small ways they tried to shield her. He couldn’t believe how vehemently Broc had come to her defense.

  Mayhap it was simply after watching her ride with his son that he’d come to the decision. He’d watched her smooth the hair back from Malcom’s face as she listened to him speak... like a mother with her beloved child, and his heartbeat had thundered within his veins. In that instant he’d wanted to snatch her up into his arms and love her madly.

  Aye, he wanted her.

  And this moment, he wanted her badly enough not to care what anyone else thought of his manners. Curse propriety! Curse them all!

  Malcom was home. Aye, and it was his son they wished to see this moment, not him. He knew Glenna would watch over him well; she loved Malcom as though he were her own. And Glenna was the closest thing to a grandparent Malcom would ever know. They needed time to reacquaint themselves. Iain, on the other hand, needed something else entirely. Something only Page could give him.

  Ignoring her protests and her threats, he bore her without a word into his home, and up the stairwell to his chamber.

  “Put me down,” she demanded. “I am perfectly capable of making my way with my own two feet, thank you very much!”

  “I’m certain, ye can, lass.”

  But he didn’t stop, and Page shrieked in outrage. “Put me down,” she demanded. “Everyone is watching!”