Such a shame she’d not realized how abruptly the bluffs ended.
And of course, it would be much too dark for her to realize until she and Malcom had already plummeted over the cliff to the rocks below.
Such a rotten shame...
Of course, he knew the reality would scarce be so simple. He was fully aware he’d need use some... persuasion... to get the wench o’er the cliff.
Malcom would be another matter entirely. The brat would give him little enough trouble. He would simply lift him up by his stout little-boy arms and toss him o’er the edge.
The very thought made him smile—not that he particularly cared to hear the lad’s screams, or hear him suffer and plead—but he was tired of looking at his bratty li’l face.
Ach! Only imagine what a misfortune it would become... were Iain to find their bodies broken together down upon the rocks below... the woman he loved—once again—with his beloved son...
Certainly it would be conceivable that he might find himself unable to cope. That was Lagan’s hope. After all... what man wouldn’t find it unbearable to lose two women—both having flown to escape him—and his only son?
In the end, wouldn’t it seem perfectly comprehensible that all three would tragically meet the same fate?
Such a poetic end.
If Iain didn’t think of ending it so himself, Lagan might find a way to prescribe it.
And with that thought he quickened his pace, feeling a rush of excitement o’er the confrontation at hand. He had no notion how long Iain would be gone from his chamber, or to where he had gone—nor did he intend to linger for anyone to spy him stealing up the tower steps. He climbed them swiftly, his footsteps lithe and full of purpose.
The light within the tower had faded with the gloaming, and though he noted the absence of lit torches, he didn’t take the time to consider why Glenna would be so slow to light them tonight.
Whatever the reason, it worked to his favor.
At long last, the wait was over, and Lagan would finally see justice done—for the father he’d never known, for the mother he’d never claimed, and the brother who’d never even once looked into his eyes and spied the blood between them.
* * *
Page opened her eyes to a room filled with the gray shades of twilight.
Sated from the afternoon’s exertions, she stretched lazily, and turned, only to find a scream caught in her throat. Startled, she lurched up in the bed, jerking up the sheets in order to conceal herself.
The shadow in the doorway came forward, revealing himself. “I wasna certain whether to wake ye, or nay.”
“What are you doing here?”
“’Tis the lad,” Lagan explained. “I wadna trouble ye, were he no’ so distressed.”
“Malcom?” Page’s brow furrowed with worry. Whatever ill will she felt for Lagan, she set aside for Malcom’s sake. “What is it? What’s happened?”
Lagan was silent a moment, his expression grave, and Page’s heart began to hammer with fear. “What is it, Lagan?” Her gaze swept the room. “Where is Iain?”
“Well, ye see...” He knelt beside the bed, peering quickly at the door as he did so. And then his gaze returned to Page, and it seemed fraught with worry. “I canna tell his Da... Because ’tis his Da he’s afeared for.”
Page’s brows knit. “I do not understand.”
“Ye see...” He glanced up at the window and then back. In the fading light his face was ashen with despair. “He overheard his Da shouting at ye, lass... an’ he’s afeared ’tis happened yet again.”
“What has happened yet again?” Page asked, following his gaze to the window. Her brows lifted in comprehension, and her gaze returned to Lagan. “Oh, but nay. Surely he cannot think his Da would—”
“Ach, lass, he does.”
“Nay,” Page said in dismay. “However could he think such a thing?”
Lagan’s mouth twisted into a grimace. He peered down at the floor between them. “Secrets have their way o’ revealin’ themselves,” he told her.
Something about the tone of his voice sent a quiver racing down Page’s spine. “Aye,” she agreed, and clutched the covers more firmly to her breast.
“If he could but see ye... then he would know he fears for naught. Will ye come?”
“Of course,” Page assured him. “Where is he?”
“He ran oot upon the bluff.”
Her gaze returned to the window. The rosy sky was fast turning to violet-gray.
“Of course I’ll go,” Page agreed. “Only give me a moment to dress.”
“Certainly,” he said, and stood. But he didn’t leave, nor did he turn away.
He stared a long instant at the sheet she had clutched to her bosom, and her face burned under his scrutiny. “Alone, please,” she urged him.
“Ye dinna mind Iain watching, do ye?” he snapped, and then seemed to snake himself free of his anger. “Verra well, I’ll be just beyond the door—come quickly,” he urged. “The hour grows late, and I wadna have Malcom come to any harm.”
“Nor I,” Page assured him, shuddering at the sharp sway of his mood. She waited until he’d left her, closing the door in his wake, and then she scrambled out of the bed to dress.
It was evident Lagan did not like her—less did he seem to relish finding her in Iain’s bed. But then it was a mutual disgust, for neither did she care for Lagan. But it mattered not; only Malcom mattered at this moment. She would have done anything for Iain’s son, and bearing Lagan’s company seemed a small enough price to repay Iain for all he’d done for her. It was certainly the least she could do in return.
* * *
Upon entering the small croft, Iain found the room dark with descending shadows, and no candles lit at all.
Glenna sat hunched over a table, weeping disconsolately into her hands. It wrenched at Iain’s gut to see the woman who’d raised him feeling so aggrieved. She was still a bonny lass, although time and toil had carved their marks upon her face, and he had never once looked upon her without wondering if his own mother’s face had been so fair.
“Glenna,” he called out softly.
Startled, Glenna lifted her tear-streaked face, and then quickly swiped the telltale wetness from her cheeks. “What is it, Iain, love?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
It was so like her to put aside her own cares for those of the kinsmen. It had never mattered to Glenna whether she herself was sick, or tired, or simply downcast, if she was needed by any of her kin, she was always there. He’d not quite spoken true when he’d told Page that here everyone fended for themselves, for Glenna looked diligently after them all. Malcom in particular. Ever eager, his dear aunt performed her duties with nary a complaint.
The night Malcom was born, she’d been sick with her lungs, and yet she’d stayed all the night long with Mairi, brushing the hair from Mairi’s face, dampening her lips whenever she’d thirsted. Ach, and she’d always found room in her heart for a little boy who’d craved his mother’s skirts as desperately as a leper for human touch—so hungry for notice and human compassion that he would cherish the passing smile from a stranger’s lips. His own need for her affection had been great. Malcom’s too. And she had loved them both as she had her own.
He’d envied Lagan.
Iain would have given everything just to know his mother’s voice, while Lagan had never treated his own with a modicum of respect—not even as a child had he allowed her to succor him. He had shunned her motherly touch, as though ashamed of the woman whose hands had mopped his brow and whose breasts had suckled him as a babe.
“In truth,” he told his aunt, as he came into the room, closing the door behind him, “I came to see to you.”
“Naught is wrong,” she answered far too quickly, shaking her head, stubbornly denying him the truth.
“So I see,” Iain replied.
She suddenly burst into tears, concealing her face within her hands. “Oh, Iain!”
Iain went to her at once. Kne
eling beside her, he placed an arm about her sturdy shoulders. “Glenna,” he whispered. “Naught could be so bad as that. Tell me what’s happened. I shall endeavor to make it right.”
“Nay!” she wailed unhappily. “Ye canna, Iain!” She turned and thrust herself into his arms. “’Tis done! Naught will bring back the years.”
Confusion clouded Iain’s thoughts, robbed him of response. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it was she was speaking of, for she was speaking in riddles. “What is it that canna be undone?” he persisted. For the first time in his life, it seemed his wise aunt was making about as much sense as a tenet-spouting prelate. He patted her back, consoling her. “Tell me, Glenna,” he urged her. “Let me help you. What is it?”
“Lagan!” she cried, weeping all the more earnestly against Iain’s shoulder, soaking his breacan. “He was here and we fought.”
“O’er what?” Iain asked. “Whatever it is, it canna possibly be so terrible that we canna mend it together. Is that no’ what you always told me, Glenna?”
He felt her nod against his shoulder.
“What has Lagan done?”
“Naught,” she cried softly, rising to her feet and wiping her face with her sleeve. “Naught as yet,” she clarified. “Though I dunno what he’s going to do. He’s so angry, Iain... and he loathes ye so much,” she disclosed.
Iain’s brows lifted in surprise. He rocked backward upon his heels. “Me?”
Her expression was filled with sorrow. “Aye, but he does!”
“I dinna understand, Glenna.”
“Oh, Iain,” she whispered brokenly. “Iain, my love...” She shook her head and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her next words left him dumb. “Lagan isna your cousin... he isna me son.”
“Nay?” he asked, reeling from the weight of her words. “Surely you jest?”
She shook her head. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
His mind grasped at her words, and his heart believed her, for he knew well enough that she would never speak anything but in truth. “Who then? Who is he?”
She reached out to touch his jaw, cradle his chin. “Your brother,” she whispered brokenly.
The blow of her words to his mind was not nearly as staggering as that to his heart. “Impossible!” Iain exclaimed at once, his face screwing with disbelief.
“’Tis true,” she countered, her brows lifting. “Ach, but, Iain, dinna ye see?”
This moment he saw nothing. Nothing was clear. Nor could he think to speak.
“’Twas no’ your birth that took your dear mother’s life,” she revealed, “’twas Lagan’s, my love.” She nodded sadly, her eyes pooling once more with tears. “Lagan is my sister’s son,” she avowed, her hand trembling upon his face. “God forgive me, Iain, I swear it on my soul. He is your brother, in truth.”
Chapter 31
The gathering darkness obscured Lagan’s vision, but he scarce slowed his pace, not even when the silhouette of a small child darted out before them.
“Lagan!” Malcom cried. “I couldna find him. I couldna! I looked but I couldna!”
“Hush, Malcom,” Lagan commanded, reining in much too recklessly before the frantic child.
It was obvious to Page that Malcom was afeared, and she suddenly didn’t feel any more at ease than he sounded to her ears. Her heart leapt as the horse snorted and kicked in protest, nearly striking Malcom’s little shoulder, and she held her breath until the animal came to a full halt—held her tongue as well, for she didn’t wholly trust Lagan. She would have risked anything for Malcom’s sake, but she was beginning to sense that something was very, very wrong.
Lagan dismounted swiftly, and Page’s sense of unease only intensified as she watched him immediately lift his crossbow from its carrier. But she scarce had time to consider his actions, for he made them clear enough almost at once.
“I dinna believe in wastin’ time,” he said, and aimed the weapon at Malcom. “Get yourself on the horse, Malcom,” he commanded the child.
The answering look upon Malcom’s face twisted Page’s heart. In the dusky twilight, his face seemed to turn ashen before her eyes. His innocent green eyes widened in grown-up comprehension and then slanted sadly like those of an old man. “Lagan,” he cried woefully, his little-boy eyes welling with tears.
Page started to dismount at once, to go to him, but Lagan turned to her and commanded, “You stay!”
She froze when he turned the weapon upon her—a momentary lapse, forsooth, she was no fearless warrior! It took her an instant to recover herself, and then she was heartily grateful the weapon was no longer trained upon Malcom.
Bolstering her courage, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “What is it you hope to gain from this?” she asked contemptuously. “What could possibly be worth harming your own cousin? Lagan, he’s naught but a child.”
“Cousin?” he asked her, his words fraught with bitterness. “Nay, he is my nephew! But I wasna given a choice o’er what he should call me. Well, I dinna want him now. He can go to the devil, where I’m gain’ to send his Da, as well!”
“I... I do not understand,” Page said.
“I dinna have the time to explain it to ye.” He turned the weapon upon Malcom again, dismissing her. “Get yourself on the horse, brat.”
With the canopy of darkness descended almost fully now, Malcom stood deeper within shadow, unmoving. Although she could no longer see his face clearly, she felt her heart wrench for the grief she knew he must be feeling. She knew he must be terrified. Knew he must feel confused.
She knew, too, that she must divert Lagan’s attention from the boy, for he was like to be no more capable of responding to Lagan’s dictates than she had been all those times her father had shattered her own illusions of him. She remembered only the numbness—a cold, gray numbness that had filtered into every corner of her soul, washing away the colors from her life—a numbness she’d carried within her very heart—until Iain MacKinnon had taught her how to feel again.
And here was his son.
She’d die a thousand deaths before she allowed Lagan to destroy his dreams and trust, his innocence and his zeal for life.
Anger filled her, a deep cleansing anger.
“What can you possibly hope to gain from this?” she asked Lagan, knowing instinctively that she could not prevail against him without understanding the battle he waged—she knew his reasons, and now she would know his intent. “Surely everyone will learn what you’ve done should any harm come to Malcom by your hand?”
“No’ by my hand!” he assured her, snorting disdainfully. “By yours.”
“Nay,” Page countered, “for I’ll never raise a finger against him. You will never force me to. Place your arrow where you please, but I’ll never lift my hand against this child—nor any other. Bloody your own hands!”
“I dinna think so.” Chortling nastily, he turned to Malcom. “Get on the horse, Malcom.”
Malcom moved forward uncertainly this time, and Page’s gaze scanned the shadowed horizon in panic, trying to discern Lagan’s intentions. He wanted Malcom on the horse. Why? Nothing was immediately discernible. The hillside sloped upward sharply so that she could not see what lay beyond the summit—
Her breath caught, and her heart jolted, for suddenly she understood. She’d spied the cliff edge from the tower window.
His gaze followed hers. “Canny lass,” he commended her. “’Tis a pity ye dinna realize sooner... or ye ne’er would have chosen this route for escape. Ye’re going to run away home, ye see, and unfortunately for you and the boy, you went the wrong way.”
Her mind raced for a way to stall him. Anything to give them precious time. “And what of Malcom? Why would I bring him along?”
“To appease your Da, o’ course,” he said with sickening sweetness, and then turned and shouted at Malcom. “I said to get on the horse, do it now!”
“Nay, Malcom,” Page asserted. “Do not come any nearer.”
She sensed, more th
an saw, Malcom’s compliance.
Although Lagan had the crossbow trained upon her, Page slid down from the horse, daring to defy him. Her father had always said she was unmindful, but she was glad for it this moment, because she knew instinctively that meekness would find the two of them lying at the bottom of a cliff come morn.
Page could scarce see his features, but for the eyes, and they were openly malicious. Night descended more deeply in the long moments that they stared at one another. Her heart pounded so fiercely that she feared the intensity of its beating.
“Get yourself back upon that horse,” Lagan snarled at her.
Although she knew he could not see her, Page stood her ground and lifted her chin. “Nay,” she refused, swallowing. “I will not.”
He turned the weapon upon Malcom then and faced her as he demanded, “Get back on the horse!”
Page took a deep breath. Her heart hammered fiercely, but she said again, “Nay. If you would murder us, then you will do it yourself! I’ll not aid you in the endeavor.” She turned to Malcom, and cursed the darkness that she could no longer see his face, nor even the obscure silhouette of his body, for he stood too far from her. And Lagan stood between them.
“Malcom?” she called out.
His response was a barely discernible murmur. He was afeared, she realized. But he was a brave child. She knew that, too, for he’d endured her father’s tirades without the first tear or single fearful whimper. Despite her father’s endless interrogations—the likes of which had brought wretched tears to her own eyes as a child—he’d held his tongue. He’d remained his father’s son, through and through. Not broken and beaten as she’d first thought, for his silence had not been in weakness, but in strength.
“Malcom,” she called out, her heart sounding like thunder in her ears, “do you trust me?”
“A-Aye,” came his soft, quavering response.
“Lie down upon the ground!” she directed him. “Lie down upon the ground, and do not get up. Do you understand?”
“Aye,” he answered, and Page struggled to see him through the darkness.
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