The MacKinnon's Bride (14 page)

And her father wanted her back, she reminded
herself, hope surging again. At any cost, she must find a way to
return to her father.

Leaning back against a tree, she hugged her
knees to her breast, watching the MacKinnon huddle together with
his men. They spoke urgently in their own tongue, and she wondered
what it was they discussed. She didn’t ponder it long, however, for
she spied Malcom then, standing next to a tree, with his back to
her, rocking from foot to foot.

Poor wretched child, she thought. He seemed
sad somehow this morn, his shoulders drooping, his head down, and
she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of his mother after
last night. Page couldn’t forget the wistful way he’d spoken of
her. There’d been no complaint in his voice, merely truth, and yet
the sadness with which he’d spoken of the mother he’d never known
had wrenched at Page’s heart. She knew firsthand how difficult it
could be to grow up without a mother—or a father, but that was
another story entirely.

Her mother hadn’t wanted
her, had ensconced herself within a nunnery after her birth—shamed
by the sight of her, her father had said. Page sighed. To this day
she suffered guilt over it.
’
Twas no
wonder her father scorned her so, for
’
twas said that he’d loved her mother more than life
itself.

And Page had driven her away.

What had she done? Wailed too much? Had she
been too demanding? She must have been a difficult child—certainly
her father had said so often enough.

And still it plagued her.

What might she have done differently?

Her brows drew together at the
self-defeating vein of thought. What was done was done, she knew,
and she couldn’t alter the course of her life now. Her mother was
dead—had perished in the nunnery long ago of some fever of the
lungs.

The best she could do now was make peace
with her father, and the sooner she returned to Balfour, the sooner
she could begin.

A fresh wash of anger flooded her.

Stealing a glance at the one to whom it was
directed, she wondered if the tales were true, that he’d murdered
his wife. Somehow, she didn’t think so. For as little as she knew
of the man, he didn’t strike her as a murderer of innocent women.
But then... Her brows drew together. Mayhap his wife had not been
innocent.

In any case,
’
twas certain the MacKinnon had had plenty of
opportunity to harm Page already if he’d so wished, and yet he had
not so much as lifted a finger against her in anger.

Although he may have wished to last
night.

Page couldn’t suppress a vengeful smile at
the thought of her rebelliousness. Sweet Mary, but she would have
given much to have spied the MacKinnon’s face when she’d first
screamed her song into his ear—and then his glower when he couldn’t
get her to stop. Unable to keep herself from it, she indulged in a
private giggle, and then bit her lip to sober herself.

He was a dangerous man, she knew.

So why didn’t she feel herself more
afeared?

She frowned at that, and
then contemplated his reaction to her defiance. Though she had
feared his reaction beforehand, she couldn’t help but think his
frustration rather humorous this morning—curious too, for a man
such as the MacKinnon, whose legendary prowess upon the field of
battle preceded him. As did his cruel reputation. There weren’t
many in the northlands—nay, in all of England—who had not heard the
tale of his poor wife’s demise.
’
Twas said
that he’d tossed her out from the tower window the very morning of
his son’s birth, that he’d had no more use for her. She’d borne him
his son, and that was all he’d required from her.

’
Twas also said that his
influence in the Highlands rivaled that of King David—that in
truth, the Highlanders looked to the MacKinnon for their
leadership, and that it sat sorely with David of
Scotland.

Perhaps that was why David had stolen Malcom
and had awarded the boy to the English court—to control the
father?

Pondering the thought, Page rose and
determined to lift little Malcom’s spirits—he’d allowed her to
soothe him last eve; mayhap he would again. Later in the day, she
would be gone from their presence, she hoped, but for now, mayhap
she could make a difference in the little boy’s mood. Mayhap she
could make him see that he could and would endure. She certainly
had!

As she neared the boy, she realized he was
singing to himself, and her heart twisted painfully as a vague
memory came back to her, a dizzying whirlwind vision of herself
lying within a golden field of grain, staring up as great tufts of
white puffy clouds floated across a pale blue sky. She was singing
herself a lullaby.

“
Hush ye, my bairnie, my
bonny wee laddie,” he sang, in his lilting Scots brogue, bringing
Page back. “When ye’re a man, ye shall follow your
daddy...”

Page smiled at his song, and the way that he
swayed to the time.

“
Lift me a coo, and a goat
and a wether,” he continued, and just then Page reached him, and
put her hand upon his back, letting him know that she was there
with comfort if he would only accept it. He stopped singing
abruptly, and peered up at her over his shoulder, his little face
screwing into a frown.

Page noticed he was holding something
beneath his tunic, though she was unable to see it for the bulk of
his breacan. She thought he might be hiding something from her, and
wondered what it might possibly be. Her father had said they were a
thieving lot, the Scots. Frowning, she reached back to seize the
end of her plait and brought it about to be certain she still owned
the only valuable thing she had to her name—the braided gold cord
she’d pilfered from her father’s cloak and now used to bind her
hair. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was still
there, adorning her gnarled tresses, like a strand of gold in a
bird’s nest. Again she frowned, and cast another glance at the
MacKinnon, assuring herself that she didn’t care whether he found
her wanting.

She returned her attention to Malcom, her
curiosity piqued. “What are you doing?” she asked.

He was still peering up at her, his little
brows drawn together in an adorable little frown. He seemed to be
considering how best to answer, and then yielded, “Paintin’.”

Page’s brows lifted. “Painting?” she asked
with some surprise. “Oh, I see.” The rascal, he was too shy to show
his artwork. She smiled, and knelt at his back, hoping to coax him
into bringing the art piece out from under his tunic. His gaze
followed her down, and his little face remained screwed in a wary
frown. “Might I see your painting?” she asked softly, coaxing him
as she would a shy pup. “I very, very much like to paint myself,”
she told him truthfully, and then waited patiently for him to
decide.

“
Weel,” he said, twisting
his little lips as he considered. “I suppose ye can,” he yielded,
and started to fiddle with the something beneath his tunic. Page
smiled in triumph, and then to her horror, watched as he began to
pee upon the ground. “See,” he said, with some pride, lifting a
finger to point at the wet dirt before him. It was then Page
noticed that part of the ground was damp already.

“
There’s horns,” he
pointed out delightedly, “and there’s eyes. I’m doin’ a nose just
now.” And then he groaned in complaint, when his stream ended
abruptly, “but I ne’er can finish ‘cause I always run out!” He
turned to her then, wrinkling his forehead in childish
disgust.

Page knelt there behind him in openmouthed
shock, her face flaming. She didn’t know what to say.

“’
Tis... quite... lovely,”
she stammered, and then screeched in fright when the MacKinnon came
and placed a hand upon her shoulder. She shrugged free of his
touch, leaping to her feet.

Malcom peered up at his father, his smile
suddenly beatific once more. “Halloo, Da!” he said, beaming. “I was
showin’ Page my goat!”

“
Were ye now?” the
MacKinnon asked, frowning, and then he turned to look at her, his
scowl deepening.

Page took a defensive step backward. “I...
I... I didn’t realize!” she said at once, stammering over her
words. She shook her head in horror. “I... I would never have
interrupted—I-I never imagined!”

The MacKinnon peered over his son’s shoulder
at the ground before his son’s feet, his brows drawn together.

Malcom shrugged. “She asked to see my goat,
da, but it wasna finished,” his son explained, eyeing Page as
though she’d suddenly gone daft.

The MacKinnon’s stern face broke into a grin
then. He turned to Page and said, looking much as though he would
break into hoots and howls of laughter, “He’s a boy, lass, what can
I say?”

Malcom was still staring up at his father,
frowning. “But, da,” he complained, “I didna get to finish again!”
And then he turned to Page and declared, “Sometimes me and my da
match to see who can piss the farthest.”

The MacKinnon was quick to place a hand to
his son’s lips, shushing him. “Malcom!”

Forsooth! Page didn’t think her face could
grow any hotter than it was already.

“
Me da always wins,”
Malcom’s little voice announced, undeterred, his words muffled
through his father’s fingers. It was obvious he was very proud of
his father’s accomplishment. He tugged his father’s hands away from
his face and boasted, “On ‘count of he’s bigger, ye see. Right,
da?” he asked, peering up at his father for witness.

Page lowered her gaze, blinking.

“
Taller, lass, taller!”
the MacKinnon proclaimed, reaching out and lifting her face to his.
“Because I’m taller,” he explained quickly.

It was only then Page realized where she’d
been staring, and her eyes widened in comprehension. She felt like
swooning! Her face burned hot with embarrassment, and her only
comfort was that the MacKinnon’s blush was nigh as deep as her own
must be. His cheeks were high with color.

She turned abruptly, feeling like a
peagoose, and walked away, wishing to God she’d never woken up this
morn at all. Jesu, but she didn’t think she’d ever be able to face
him again—father or son!

The MacKinnon came after her, and then his
footsteps halted abruptly. “Page!” he barked, his voice like a clap
of thunder.

Page froze, blinking at the sharpness of his
voice.

And then she realized what it was he’d said,
and her knees went weak beneath her.

Mother of Christ!

He knew.

Her mind raced, trying to discern how he
could possibly, and then she realized belatedly that Malcom had
used her name yet again. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed the
world away. Lord help her, but she’d never felt more like crawling
into a hole and remaining there the whole of her life. Now, in
truth, she couldn’t bear to face him.

What would she say?

How could she explain?

Her heart raced painfully.

Iain could scarce believe it, though the
proof was there before him. She’d frozen in her step when he’d
called her by name, and she stood there still, looking like a
beautiful carving of stone in her utter stillness.

He’d heard Malcom speak the word last eve,
but had assumed his son had misnamed the verse a page. He’d thought
nothing more of it. Until Malcom had spoken it again.

Iain had been momentarily distracted over
his son’s artwork, but no more.

He had to know the truth.

And sweet Christ, but he did. He could tell
by the way she stood, so stiffly, refusing to face him. She knew
precisely what it was he wished to know, and she gave him his
answer with her silence.

As he watched her tilt her head back and
peer into the sky, as though in supplication, Iain shook with a
rage so potent, it was manifest. He could taste it bitterly. He
could feel it—from the fury that burned him, to the heart that
squeezed him. He could smell it, and the stench was putrid. If
FitzSimon, the bastard, stood before him this instant, Iain thought
he might tear out his bloody heart and shove it down his
throat—provided he had a heart at all! God damn the ill-begotten
whoreson!

What sort of man went so far as not to name
his own daughter? Page was no name at all, but a mere role to be
played!

How could a man—how could anybody— have so
little concern over a human being? His own flesh and blood?

His jaw clenched so tightly that he thought
he could taste his own blood.

He muttered an oath beneath his breath, and
swore that if ever again he faced the man who called himself her
father, he would strangle the fool with his bare hands.

Uncertain what else to do, Iain merely
stared at her back—she’d been unable to turn and face him as
yet—and he saw that she quaked, as well.

God’s teeth, nothing he had done to her,
nothing he had said, had caused such a reaction in her, and he
swore another bitter oath as he turned abruptly, unable to face her
as yet, unable to force her to face him.

Turning, he nearly plowed into Lagan in his
blind rage.

“’
Tis Ranald,” Lagan
announced. “Iain... he hasna returned.”

Iain muttered an oath. “Gather a search
party,” he commanded Lagan. “Damn, but I’m gain’ to strangle the
wandering whoreson when we find him!”

chapter 13

They combed the woodlands more furiously
now, hacking away at the flowering vines and foliage in their
paths.

Lagan and Ranald had been companions since
childhood, and Iain could tell his cousin was growing more
distressed with every inch of ground they covered in search of his
friend.