Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Page nodded in sudden comprehension. “Oh, yes, I see! When he was younger?”

  “Aye,” Glenna said, looking relieved now that Page understood.

  Page drew her brows together. “But he’s older now,” she reasoned, turning her attention back to the window, eyeing it speculatively. “I can see no harm in removing the bars. It looks like a gaol in here.” She tested the slats once more—every last one of them, although she had to climb upon the sill to reach the uppermost boards. The top slat cracked free, only a bit, but enough that she was able to pry her fingers beneath and seize hold of it. Using her weight for leverage, she tugged it free. Rather than lose her footing, Page released the board. It landed upon the floor with a resounding clatter.

  A brilliant stream of sunlight pierced the room.

  “Splendid,” she exclaimed. “The floors and walls will dry so much better with the sun.” She turned to appraise Glenna’s reaction and found the older woman had vanished. Her brows knit, for she hadn’t even been the least aware of Glenna’s departure. Page shrugged, thinking Glenna’s reaction to the window curious, but she wasn’t going to let it stop her. She was certain that once they saw the improvement in the room, they would wholeheartedly agree that it was the right thing to do. Without delay, Page began to work at unbarring the window, removing the gloomy barrier board by board.

  Iain had been repairing the stone enclosure that kept their fold penned when Broc found him. Sputtering something about clean floors and unshuttering the tower window, he’d urged Iain to make haste. Dread over whatever dire circumstance had reduced Broc to spouting nonsensical drivel kept Iain from lingering to decipher the cryptic message. But it wasn’t until Glenna accosted him on his way into the tower that he fully understood what it was that Broc had been trying to say, and he took the tower steps two at a time in his haste to reach her.

  Too late.

  He burst through the doorway of his chamber and froze at the sight that greeted him.

  The room was aglow with light. Brilliant white sunlight flooded every corner and washed over the wooden floors like a mantle of gold.

  In the space of an instant, he was propelled backward in time.

  Page stood looking out from the window, sunlight streaming in all around her. It touched her hair and brushed it with copper. Iain took a step into the room and felt suddenly as though he’d walked into an inferno... the nightmare was real once more.

  Sweat beaded upon his brow and tickled his upper lip.

  She didn’t turn and he couldn’t find his voice to speak.

  Like some beautiful specter from his past, she stood there, peering down at the cliffs below the tower, with the wind blowing and lifting her unbound hair. It fluttered at her back and the she leaned forward to catch the breeze.

  Iain’s breath caught and his heart began to hammer. In his mind’s eye he saw Mairi, not Page, standing there. Although he stood there empty-handed, he felt again the weight of their newborn bairn in his arms and the sting of tears in his eyes.

  That morning... it had begun just exactly this way...

  It couldn’t be happening again.

  He wouldn’t allow it.

  Page had never seen such a glorious sight as the one she now beheld.

  In all her life she had never known a view could be so breathtaking. With the advantage of height, one could see clearly out to the loch below the jutting cliffs. From the ground, all that was visible was an upward-sloping hill. She would have guessed that the hill continued to a gentle slope beyond the summit, as well.

  And she would have been wrong.

  The wind roared past her ears, and the sun shining down upon her face was like the hand of God warming her wind-chilled brow. She stood in amazement, marveling over the glitter of blue that stretched forth between one cliffside and the next. She could feel every sensation acutely here—the crispness of the air, the warmth of the sun’s rays, the caress of the wind.

  She couldn’t imagine why the window should have been boarded—it seemed a terrible shame to take for granted something so incredibly beautiful as this view. Glenna’s explanation had been reasonable enough... when one stopped to think of the dangers to a small child. Page doubted she would ever have considered such a thing. But then, she was neither a mother nor a father, and was like never to be protecting one of her own. But Malcom was older now.

  The breeze was sweet with the scent of wild heather.

  Instinctively she leaned out to seek the elusive scent, to inhale it more deeply into her greedy lungs.

  “Nay!”

  The thunderous command startled her.

  Page spun about, her hand flying to her breast, to find Iain standing in the room. She’d not even heard him enter. “You startled me,” she accused him.

  “Get away from that window!” He came toward her, eyes narrowed wrathfully. “Now!”

  Page took a step backward, alarmed by the purposeful look in his eyes, the glassy sheen to them. He looked at her as though he did not quite recognize her.

  “I said get away from the window.” He lunged after her suddenly, before she could take another evasive step, seizing her ruthlessly by the arm. He spun her about, dragging her down and into the chamber.

  Alarmed, Page struggled against the hold he had upon her arm. Never had she seen him so enraged, so maddened. The flickering gold of his eyes shimmered with the intensity of angry, burning flames. The transformation in him was frightening. “You’re hurting me,” she protested. “Please stop!”

  But he couldn’t seem to hear her.

  He jerked her after him, hurled her heedlessly across his bed. Page landed, disoriented, but didn’t dare wait to catch her breath. She scurried to the far side of the bed and turned to face him there, watching him warily.

  “Who said you could open that window?”

  Page shook her head, unable to speak. She didn’t know this side of him. Never once had he looked at her so cruelly, or spoken so harshly. She couldn’t even begin to comprehend what she could have done to provoke him to such an extreme—not when she’d worked so incessantly at it before and had never even managed to prick his temper at all. Truthfully, she’d been more in danger of spurring his laughter than she ever had his fury. Reasoning that he was not lucid this instant, she said, “I’m sorry. I... I didn’t know... I didn’t realize... Iain?”

  Strange how, though she knew the lengths to which her father would go, she’d always stood her ground with him. With Iain, she was certain he’d never harm her—ever—and yet she felt the need to conciliate. But she wasn’t about to come anywhere near him until the cloud of rage cleared from his eyes.

  It was the look upon her face that recalled Iain to himself.

  She crouched upon his bed, her eyes wild and watching him with that same intensely guarded look she’d given him that first night he’d met her. But it was wariness, not hatred he saw there.

  Not revulsion.

  He blinked, refocusing.

  Of course, it was not Mairi at the window... not Mairi shrinking from him at the far end of the bed.

  And still he couldn’t help but shudder at the look of fear in her eyes. At the black rage in his heart. So many years he’d kept the emotions buried. But he wasn’t simply angry with Mairi for leaving their son—he despised her for it.

  Unwilling to betray his emotions, Iain turned his back to Page and sat upon the bed, his body tense and trembling with restraint.

  He sat for what seemed an eternity, peering at the open window.

  Blue skies for as far as the eye could behold.

  Malcom would have his sixth winter soon.

  He looked about, seeing his chamber for the first time in so many years... He’d always loathed this room. Even before Mairi, he had suffered the dreams. Her death only intensified them.

  But this moment... there was something different about the room, he thought... something bright and cheery. He’d seen it this way before... but the difference this instant... was the presence of
the woman at his back.

  He started when he felt her delicate tap upon his shoulder. His breath caught, but he didn’t turn to face her.

  He didn’t know what to say.

  She probably thought him a madman.

  And he would scarce blame her for it.

  Page approached Iain warily, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and gasped when he started. He didn’t turn to look at her, seemed discomposed, and she wanted so much to ease his burdens... as he had done so much for her.

  They were true, she realized, as she watched him stare so intently at the window—the rumors she’d heard about his wife.

  And yet it was evident from his expression, from his reaction to the open window, that the memory pained him still. The connection had never occurred to her—the barred window and the death of his wife.

  She swallowed, gathered her courage, and lifted her hand to his clenched jaw.

  Her heart lurched when he leaned into it, allowing her to comfort him, and her breath caught when he turned to look at her suddenly.

  His golden eyes were full of grief.

  “’Tis true, then? Your wife...”

  For a long instant Iain didn’t reply. He removed his face from her hand, sitting rigidly before her. “What?” he asked her, his whisper sounding pained. “Is it true I murdered her? That I pushed her from the window?”

  “Nay,” Page said with a rush of breath. She shook her head vehemently. “I never did think so.”

  But she had.

  Once.

  She didn’t anymore.

  He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “She killed herself.” His voice broke. “Leapt... from that very window.” He turned again to the wide, unobstructed opening, nodding toward it.

  Page experienced the most overwhelming desire to embrace him in that instant. She let herself, her heart quickening...

  For the first time in her life, she didn’t worry about rejection... or her own tattered soul. She wrapped her arms about the man she loved. And though he stiffened at the unexpected show of compassion, he allowed it.

  For a long moment they remained just so.

  “It seemed she preferred death... to me,” he admitted softly, brokenly. “Her final words were... I want ye to know... the thought o’ ye ever touchin’ me again did this... You killed me, Iain.”

  Page’s eyes stung with tears for the pain he’d endured at Mairi’s hands.

  “I still hear those words in my dreams.”

  He shuddered at the confession, and her heart swelled with emotion. “I understand,” she said softly. “I truly do.” All this time she had never guessed he could be suffering the same as she—he with his good humor and his easy demeanor. She knew what it felt like to be unloved, to be cast aside.

  They were the same, he and she.

  He turned to look at her, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Aye,” he said, “I know ye do, lass.”

  Not this time. She wasn’t going to allow him to divert her attention—for once, it wasn’t about her. “I’m stubborn and canny,” she told him. “Don’t you worry about me.” And she smiled softly—for the first time in her life knowing of a certainty it was so.

  He gave her a halfhearted smile, a slight turn of his lips.

  She wanted to love him, wanted to nurture him—wanted him to know that not only would she gladly bear his touch, but she craved it fiercely. And in that instant she knew she loved him truly. It must be love, for she was unafraid to offer him all that she had to give—no matter that he had the power to wound her as did no other. Were he to rebuff her, she knew she would never recover. Even so... not caring what his reaction to her brazenness might be... she bent to brush her lips against his whiskered jaw.

  She kissed him softly, but with all the emotion she possessed in her heart. She wanted him to cherish her, wanted him to love to her, wanted to embrace him just so for the rest of her days.

  “Ach, mo cridhe... nighean mo ruin,” he whispered fiercely, turning and cupping her face within his callused hands. He closed his eyes and kissed her lips with a heart-jolting tenderness that stole her breath away.

  Shuddering as he drew her down upon the bed and covered her body with his own, Page dared to pretend that his strangely muttered words meant I love you.

  Chapter 30

  It had been a long time since Iain had watched the sun set from his chamber window. Even longer since he’d held a lover by the blush of its waning light. He’d forgotten how sweet it could be…how sweet he’d imagined it could be.

  Aye, he’d experienced those moments of gratification... the physical sense of serenity. He’d wallowed in those pleasures like a lazy hound in the heat of the noonday sun. But he’d never imagined such a plane existed within the soul itself.

  Exhausted from her day’s labor within his chamber, Page slept deeply beside him. Iain could scarce keep his hands to himself. He stroked her hair reverently, marveling that she slept so peacefully. He traced the outline of her body with his hands, afeared to wake her, and yet unable to keep himself from appreciating the beauty of her form. Her long, lean limbs were tangled within the bedsheets. Her hair, lit by the last rays of sunlight, looked like copper flowing down the valley of her back.

  Like a wild woodland nymph, she lay wholly revealed—her heart exposed to him. In that moment he sensed her soul, and it was beauteous beyond imagination. Like a wary sculptor disrobing his long-guarded creation, she’d dared unveil herself to him with her love, and his heart was filled near to brimming with emotion—emotions he couldn’t quite disentangle, so jumbled were they in this twisted mass that was his heart.

  And yet he knew they were significant, for never in his life had he felt such a buoyant sense of bonding. If he could remain with her together... the way they were this instant... for the rest of their days... Iain thought he might do so.

  And so when the knock sounded upon the door, he was loath even to respond. He lay, muttering silent curses and willing the intruder to go away. The summons came once more, and he growled in disgust. Drawing the sheets up to cover Page from greedy eyes, he lifted himself from the bed as quietly as he was able, leaving, her to sleep while he answered the door.

  “Broc,” he said, frowning as he opened the door to find the youth standing there. Naked though he was, he stood barring the view within.

  “My laird,” Broc began, looking suddenly sheepish. “Pardon, but ach, it seems ’tis my duty today to be the bearer of bad tidings.”

  Iain peered back over his shoulder at the sleeping form within his bed, and sighed. “What now?” he asked, returning his attention to a red-faced Broc.

  “Well,” Broc began. “’Tis Glenna...”

  “What about her?” Iain snapped.

  “Well,” Broc began again, fidgeting under Iain’s impatient glare. “She dinna see to the evenin’ meal... We went to find oot why... but she willna come oot o’ her croft house.”

  Iain’s face screwed. “Ach, mon,” It wasn’t like Glenna, though she was certainly entitled to a moment’s peace. He needed only see how weary Page was to know that Glenna was like to be the same. “Ye’re all grown men,” he admonished. “Dinna ye think she—”

  “She’s weeping,” Broc interjected before Iain could reprimand him further.

  “Weeping?”

  Broc nodded. “Rather loudly. Ye can hear her clearly from outside the door. But she says she doesna wish to talk to anybody, and willna open the door.”

  “Where is Lagan?”

  Broc shrugged. “We’ve looked everywhere, but it doesna matter as she says she doesna wish to see her son either.”

  Iain was certain his surprise was manifest in his face. “She willna see her son?”

  Broc shook his head. “It isna her way, I know.”

  Iain’s brow furrowed. “Nay,” he said, deliberating over the facts. Truly, it was not. Glenna had never been one to indulge in tempers. Never in all the years he’d known her. “Go on, then. I’ll be there anon.”


  “Aye,” Broc said, and turned to go.

  “But do not tell her I am coming,” Iain charged him.

  The last thing he wished was for his stalwart aunt to prepare herself to face him—to put away her sorrows and her worries. If there was aught plaguing her, he would know it. After all she’d done for him, it was the least he could do for her.

  He only wondered why it was that she would not speak to her son. When he thought on it, Lagan had been acting strange of late, although he’d attributed the fact to his quarrel with auld mon MacLean, and then to Ranald’s death. And yet his cousin had been conspicuously absent at Ranald’s wake—neither had he offered to carry his longtime friend on the voyage home—a fact that had not escaped Iain.

  Had Iain not been so preoccupied with finding the traitor in their midst, he might have taken notice sooner. But something was amiss between them, and he would set it to rights at once. Better late than not at all.

  * * *

  Time was his enemy now.

  His final chance had presented itself, and he knew he must hie to take advantage.

  Nightfall would come soon, and knowing Malcom would never disobey his Da by wandering out to Lover’s Bluff alone after twilight, he’d been forced to lie to the lad, telling him Iain awaited him on the cliff top. The little whelp had gone without question.

  But Malcom wouldn’t remain there long once he discovered his father was not there, and once the light began to fade he would come scurrying back as fast as his wee legs could carry him.

  Aye, he would need to plan carefully now... in order for all to go as it should.

  He hadn’t intended to do anything this eve, but he’d been watching… and waiting for his chance. And ’twas a good thing, for Broc had, at long last, managed to draw Iain away from his Sassenach temptress.

  The tale he would tell was clear in Lagan’s mind: As this was the first time Iain had left her completely unattended, she would naturally choose it to make her escape. And certainly she would wish to take the boy with her to appease her father.