Page

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “I canna save ye if ye willna let go,” he advised her.

  “And I will not let go until you save me,” she returned.

  “Ach, ye’re a sassy woman.” He laughed.

  “Aye, well, my father’s here to take me off your hands at last. You’ll not have to endure it much longer, it seems.”

  He made some sound, like a snarl, and jerked Page away from the rock. When at last she was in his arms, her tears began to flow at once. She clung to him, weeping, babbling nonsensically, and all the while he stroked her head and held her close. And she didn’t know which she was more aggrieved over: the fact that she’d come so close to cracking her head upon the rocks below, or that her father had finally come to collect her.

  “Wrap yourself about me, Page,” he whispered. “Dinna let go.”

  Page did as she was told, burying her face against his throat, her lips against the warmth of his flesh. She wrapped her legs about his waist and held to him for dear life.

  “Ach,” he whispered, holding her close. Page thought he would squeeze her until she broke, but she couldn’t truly care this moment. She wanted him to hold her so, never wanted him to let her go.

  “Malcom told me everything. You’re a stouthearted lass,” he said with pride. “I believe we’ll make a fine Scotswoman oota ye yet.”

  “I’m sorry about Lagan,” she whispered.

  “’Tis no fault o’ your own,” he said, kissing the pate of her head.

  “Malcom?”

  “His heart is bruised, but he’ll live,” Iain assured her.

  “And my father?”

  “Aye, Page,” he answered. “He’s come for ye... as ye always said he would.”

  Page squeezed her eyes closed against his breacan, reveling in the scent of the man who held her. She wasn’t certain what it was she was feeling this moment, whether joy or something else entirely—regret?—but she knew without a doubt who it was who held her. Not her father.

  “By the blessed stone, Iain MacKinnon... dinna be keepin’ us waitin’,” came a voice from above. “D’ ye have the lassie, or nay?”

  “Are ye ready to face him?” Iain whispered.

  Page laughed softly and held him all the more tightly. “Do I have a choice?” she asked morosely. When she left this embrace... would it be their last? “If I say nay, can we stay here forever?”

  He chuckled softly. “Ach, lass, I believe Angus may have somethin’ to say aboot that.”

  “Iain!” Angus shouted down at them. “Come on now, lad! These auld arms canna hold ye burly self down there forever!”

  “See?” Iain asked her, and he lifted his head from the embrace to shout his reply. “Aye, Angus! Draw us up now, will ye.”

  Page couldn’t help herself.

  Some part of her suddenly wished she’d ended upon the rocks below. While merely hours before, she’d never felt more alive, more cherished, more complete, she now felt only an overwhelming emptiness in her heart.

  Her father had come for her, after all.

  Iain wasn’t sure how to feel.

  In the space of a single day he’d discovered a brother, and then lost him. And in the course of the same day had come near to losing his son and the woman he loved, as well. Later he would sort out his feelings for the brother he’d never claimed, and for the father who had denied them both. For now, his son was safe with Glenna. But while Page was safe from Lagan’s fate, he was now in danger of losing her yet again. And this time he couldn’t simply sweep her out of harm’s reach.

  More than aught, he wanted her to stay—and if she decided ’twas her heart’s desire to do so, then her father’s entourage along with David of Scotia’s were not enough to prevail against him.

  And if she chose to go, it would be the single most difficult thing he’d ever done, but Iain would allow it. Ach, he knew how important her father’s acceptance was to her.

  He could tell by the way she clung to him that she was afeared. He gave her ribs a squeeze when they neared the bluff top, and then handed her up into waiting arms. Kerwyn and Kermichil together hauled her up and onto her feet. And then with Angus’s help, Iain climbed over the edge, as well.

  She looked so like a child standing there by the moonlight that Iain’s heart wrenched for her. He knew this moment was difficult for her, and he wanted so much to whisk her away from her good-for-nothing sire, and keep her from harm.

  But he couldn’t do that. He knew that as well as she did, and he was proud of her when she went to FitzSimon and stood before him. There were no embraces between them, but then Iain hadn’t expected any.

  He could scarce bear the thought of her leaving with her father. It wrenched at his gut, but he knew he wouldn’t stop her. He wanted her to be happy. And by the stone, if that meant she would leave him, so be it.

  Though it seemed impossible to restrain himself, Iain did so, remaining behind her at a safe distance—safe for him, because he wanted to lunge at FitzSimon’s throat and murder him where he stood.

  “I’ve come to take you home, daughter.”

  Page could scarce speak, so overwhelmed was she with conflicting emotions.

  How long had she waited for her father to call her “daughter?”

  An eternity too long.

  And now he was here, speaking the words she’d so longed to hear, and all she wanted to do was to slap his face. Aye, some part of her wanted to fall to his feet and thank him profusely, but some other wicked part of her wanted to deny him as he had done so long to her.

  She straightened her spine and lifted her chin, demanding of him, “Why?” It was her right to know why he should change his mind. She wanted to believe he’d had a change of heart, but it was more like to be that he’d finally found some use for her.

  He peered at the ground a long moment, and then again met her gaze. “The truth?”

  “Aye,” Page answered. “The truth.”

  “I did not believe you were my daughter. I thought you were Henry’s bastard daughter, conceived by my wife.”

  Her brow furrowed. In truth, she should have been shocked by his revelation, but she wasn’t. “I see,” she said, and tried to find some measure of comfort in his explanation. She found it only angered her all the more. “And now?”

  “Your mother is long dead. I cannot make it up to her.”

  Page stood silent, listening.

  “I never believed her, Page... though I confronted Henry at long last... when he came to take the boy. He swears to me that your mother was pure, and said he never had carnal knowledge of her. I never believed her,” he said again. “And I took it out upon you. For that, daughter, you have my deepest regrets.”

  Regrets? For a lifetime of disregard? For casting her mother away for a sin she hadn’t committed?

  Page remained silent.

  “I could not see what she could possibly want with me when she had England’s king enamored of her. So I drove her away, Page. But I’ll make it up to you—I swear it. I shall find you a fitting spouse, and make you the lady you deserve to be.”

  Page’s eyes welled with tears. He was saying the things she’d so longed to hear. As a child. What she would have given to hear them spoken then...

  At this moment... they merely served to confuse her. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do... nor did she seem to have a choice. Iain and his people had been generous enough to take her in, had embraced her these last days like one of their own... but only because her father had not wanted her.

  And here he was, her father, willing and ready to take her home…

  “The MacKinnon’s bride is a lady,” someone suddenly proclaimed. Page turned and spied Broc stepping forward from the gathered crowd, his stance battle-ready. His expression, although obscured by the night’s shadows, was unmistakably angry and full of challenge. She wasn’t certain which she was more shocked by... the fact that he had claimed her as the MacKinnon’s bride, or that he’d come forward to defend her.

  Her brows k
nit suddenly, as the reason for his indignation filtered through her. Why hadn’t she caught the slur in her father’s words? Indeed! She was a lady!

  “Bride?” her father asked, oblivious to his own offense. “My daughter is no bride to this man!” His tone was contemptuous. “She will have better than a savage Scot.”

  “Aye,” Angus argued, stepping forward, as well. “I say she is the MacKinnon’s bride!”

  “Aye,” came a cacophony of voices from the gathered crowd. “She’s the MacKinnon’s bride!” and “She’s the MacKinnon’s bride, alright!”

  Page could scarcely believe her eyes and ears.

  “Is this true?” came a voice from the shadows.

  Page searched out the speaker and found it belonged to a man still mounted upon horseback. He’d been watching quietly from a distance, and now seemed to be peering straight at her, waiting for her response... Nay, not her...

  She suddenly realized he was looking past her. She peered over her shoulder and found Iain standing guard at her back. He said nothing, seemed to be scrutinizing her, his eyes seeing only her, ignoring the surrounding crowd.

  “My daughter is no bride to this barbarian,” her father contended. “He stole her away from me, and I would have her returned.”

  Stole. Returned. The words leapt out at her from her father’s tirade.

  Her gaze snapped back to meet her father’s angry glare.

  FitzSimon turned to regard the man on horseback. “I demand you command him to release her at once!”

  “You demand?” the man asked from his vantage in the shadows.

  “I did not come all this way to leave empty- handed,” her father raved. “Release her to me, or—”

  “Or what?” the man on horseback asked.

  “Or I—”

  “Iain MacKinnon?” the horseman asked, dismissing her father suddenly. “What say you to this? Is this woman your bride or nay?”

  Page braced herself for Iain’s reply. She closed her eyes.

  “Why do you not ask my lady?” he suggested.

  Page turned to look at him in shock. He merely smiled at her, saying nothing. He nodded, urging her to answer the inquiry. And in that instant she understood love in its purest form. It was unveiled to her as it never had been before.

  Her decision was clear: Choose a father who never once acknowledged her—cared so little that he never even bothered to give her a name—or choose a man with compassion enough that he would risk her anger to offer her one? Choose the one who’d rebuffed her though she was flesh and blood to him, or he who chose to take her into his fold, despite that she was a sour-mouthed lass and had caused him more trouble than he’d ever bargained for? She smiled at the memory. He hadn’t wanted her. She’d been cast into his unwilling hands, and yet he’d not turned her away.

  She turned to meet her father’s eyes.

  “Tell him, Page,” her father barked at her.

  Nor, Page realized in that moment, had it been her father who had risked himself to deliver her from the jaws of death. It had been Iain’s arms that had borne her to safety.

  And it was Iain now who loved her enough to give her a choice.

  “What say you, lass?” the horseman asked.

  She had no notion who the man might be, but she knew instinctively that he was someone of consequence. Even Iain, while not overly obsequious, seemed to defer to him. King David? It would make sense, Page thought, for her father would have gone to him for safe passage into the Highlands. Either David or Henry. But only David could ride with so few into these people’s midst, and only a Scotsman would dare.

  She turned again to address Iain, needing to know if he meant it true. He seemed to understand her silent plea, and she never needed utter a word. He nodded, urging her to speak.

  Page met her father’s gaze once more and lifted her chin. Her lips curved into a smile as she declared, “I am.”

  “You are what?” her father snapped.

  “The MacKinnon’s bride,” she said almost too softly to be heard.

  “Nay! He’s forcing her,” her father declared, turning to address the horseman. “Did you see that?”

  Page met David of Scotland’s gaze, lifting her chin determinedly. “No one forces me,” she assured him, her voice stronger now.

  “Speak it louder, Page,” Iain whispered at her back, and her heart flowered with joy as she’d never known before.

  A smile burst upon her lips. “I am the MacKinnon’s bride,” she all but shouted.

  All at once, a shout rang out. In unison, the clansmen cheered. Page felt her heart swell, until it seemed as though it would burst.

  The horseman looked past her once more to Iain. “Is this true?”

  Silence fell again. Iain stepped forward, placing his arms about her in a protective embrace. “Aye.”

  “Well, then, FitzSimon,” the horseman declared. “It seems to me your daughter is, in fact, the man’s bride.”

  Once again cheers rang out, and Page was scarce aware of the tirade her father began, nor even the quarrel between him and the horseman, nor the angry shouts of the MacKinnon men as they demanded he leave. She was aware only of the man at her back. She scarce knew it when her father stalked away and mounted his horse in anger. He spouted curses as he hied away, followed by an unsympathetic band of Scotsmen.

  “You’ve not heard the last of this,” her father declared. “I will demand satisfaction!”

  Page giggled softly. “He will, you realize,” she warned Iain. “He does not like to be thwarted.”

  “So ye told me once before,” he reminded her. “But I dinna think he’ll be back,” he assured her. “Look at them,” he urged her. “Ye’ve wormed your way into my people’s hearts—sassy- mouthed lass that ye are. If he returns, they’ll flay him alive.”

  Page chuckled at his choice of words, remembering that she’d said something of the same sort to him not very long ago. Following his gaze to the angry horde of Scotsmen chasing her father from their land, shouting curses and threats at his back, she giggled at the sight of them. Some part of her was sad to see her father go, for he was her father, after all, but the greater part of her felt only relief.

  “I love ye, lass,” Iain whispered, tightening his embrace. “Ach, I’ve something’ for you,” he revealed suddenly, releasing her. He searched through the folds of his breacan and drew something from it. Embracing her once more from behind, he offered her the battered remains of a yellow crocus. Her yellow crocus. The one she’d discarded in anger. He’d somehow found it, and saved it for her. “The moment I laid ye down upon that bed o’ blossoms,” he told her, “I considered ye mine. But I wanted to hear from your own lips that ye considered me yours.”

  Page was too overwhelmed to speak. “I am yours.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Say it again,” he urged her, squeezing her gently.

  “I am yours,” she said with a contented sigh, “I am the MacKinnon’s bride.”

  “That ye are,” he assured her. “And I’ll ne’er let ye regret it for the rest o’ your days. I’ll make ye happy, Page. I pledge to ye my love and my loyalty, and I wed thee here in the name of God.”

  Loyalty, she could well believe. “Love?” she asked him. “Truly?”

  He turned her about to face him. “Dinna ye doubt it, lass.” Grasping her arms, he shook her gently. “I love ye fiercely, truly, and madly!” And then he kissed her upon the bridge of the nose.

  “And I love you,” Page confessed. “I love you fiercely, truly, and madly, too.” And she did, without fear or reservation.

  He lifted her up without warning, and tossed her over his shoulders.

  Page squealed in surprise. “What are you doing?” she demanded in feigned outrage.

  “I’m takin’ ye home, lass... afore ye change your mind.”

  Page laughed.

  “Anyway, I’m a savage Scot,” he reminded her. “We dinna want to be disappointin’ your Da.”

  Page laughed with
scandalized delight.

  “But first,” he declared, “you’re gain’ to be seein’ to my son—assure him that ye live—and then I’m going to take ye to my bed... make ye sing me a sweet lullai bye.”

  And that he did.

  And that she did.

  Preview “Maeghan”

  Book 2, Sweet Scottish Brides

  Chapter 1

  Maeghan, Sweet Scottish Brides, Book 2

  The forest was their sanctuary.

  Meghan and her grandmother spent many a morning in the dimness of the woodland, gathering herbs for her grandmother’s potions. Just now they were searching for sweetbriar upon MacLean land, and Meghan was on her hands and knees, crawling across the ground at the forest’s edge, painstakingly inspecting foliage.

  They were not supposed to be here, she knew, as old man MacLean was apt to be angry if he discovered them once more upon his land. Last time he had accused her Minnie of poaching, though there had not been a whit of evidence in their sack. All they had borne away with them that day were weeds and little more. He did not know her grandmother if he thought she would do such a thing; her Minnie would never eat an animal if she looked the creature in the eyes beforehand.

  “Ye dinna have to look so carefully, Meghan!” her grandmother said. “’Tis not so wee a plant, child—more like a shrub!”

  “I remember, Minnie, and you said look for the pink flowers, too. So I’m looking, but I dinna see any!”

  “Ach, lass! That’s because you’re crawling on your belly like a viper! Get yourself up before you grind the dirt into your sweet knees!”

  Meghan peered back at her grandmother over her shoulder, watching her an instant. The old woman was hunched over, scanning the plants, murmuring to herself as she scrutinized each one. Every so oft she would bend to pluck a sample and then crush it between her fingers.

  “Be careful with the thorns,” her grandmother said, as she inspected a small branch of some plant.

  “I will!” Meghan wished her Minnie wouldn’t treat her like a wee bairn. She was all of eight summers now, and not nearly so little anymore.