The MacKinnon's Bride (15 page)

Iain hadn’t been overly concerned the night
before, only because he’d thought Ranald needed time to calm
himself—that perhaps his disappearance had been a gesture of
defiance. He was well aware the men had been displeased with his
decision to bring Page along with them.

Och, but if he thought he
despised the name she gave him before, he loathed this one all the
more. Nay, but
’
twas no name at
all!

As the party continued to search, Iain
considered others that might better suit her—and decided that every
last one of them suited her better than Page. The very thought of
her father’s insult made his ire rise tenfold. He hacked at a thick
vine with the flat of his sword, cutting it in twain with the blunt
force of his blow.

Christ and bedamned! Where was Ranald?

Angry as he may have been, Iain knew Ranald
would never have deserted them. His brow furrowed. Most assuredly
not without his mount.

His thoughts skittered back to Page, and he
shook his head in disgust. Damn, but how could any man allow—nay,
demand!—that his own flesh and blood be borne away by the enemy?
Iain clenched his teeth at the unpalatable thought. Try as he
might, he couldn’t comprehend the workings of FitzSimon’s mind.
Even had Mairi been unfaithful and borne him another man’s bairn,
Iain knew he would have loved that child as if it were his own. It
was never the bairn’s fault, was it? He couldn’t comprehend such
blatant lack of regard in a father who shared the same blood with
his daughter.

Surely
’
twas an abomination before God’s eyes? Though
‘God might reap his own justice, Iain found he wished to show the
whoreson a more earthly sort of hell—and he damned well would if he
ever set eyes upon the man again.

“
Begin searching the
brush!” he commanded. A sense of unease lifted the hairs of his
nape. Until now, they’d been scouring the ground for some evidence
of struggle—some clue to Ranald’s disappearance—tracks through the
soft earth of the forest, leaves disturbed. There was
nothing.

“
He canna have gone far
withoot his mount,” he reminded his men, thinking aloud, and still
his brooding thoughts returned to Page.

Maggie was a good sounding Scots name.

Anger surged through him once more.

At his wits’ end with the search, he cursed
and hacked off the crown of a bush, then bellowed for Dougal. “Take
Broc and Kerwyn,” Iain directed the lad. “Search to the right;
circle about. Lagan,” he commanded, turning to address his
dour-faced cousin. “Take Kerr and Kermichil and sweep to the
left.”

Lagan nodded and did as he was directed
without question. Iain took the remaining two men with him. The
greater number of his forces, he’d assigned to remain with Page and
Malcom. The last thing he intended was to lose his son again to
FitzSimon.

As far as Iain was aware, they’d not been
followed, but he didn’t intend to take unnecessary risks where
Malcom was concerned—for all he knew, FitzSimon had pursued them,
but at a discreet distance, with the intent of luring them away
upon this fruitless search, so that he might in the meantime
reclaim Malcom.

While Iain was certain the
bastard was unwilling to stir himself for his daughter’s sake,
Malcom was another matter entirely. Doubtless FitzSimon would be
facing Henry’s wrath over losing his ward. In truth,
’
twas why Iain had forsaken the old road, opting
for the shorter, more arduous route across the border and into the
Highlands—just in case the fool thought to follow. Aye, for there
was a reason Scotia had resisted outlanders so well and so long;
the land was their ally.

Nor did he wish for Page to have access to
the old road to facilitate her escape. Though why he should care
whether she fled them, he didn’t know. He only knew that he could
scarce stomach the thought of her facing her father and the
despicable truth—that he didn’t want her.

The look he’d spied upon her face when, with
Malcom in tow, he’d returned from dealing with her father haunted
him still.

It was Broc who discovered the body, not
long after their divergence. The lad’s hue and cry seemed more a
woman’s squawk in its unrestrained hysteria.

Iain spun and raced through the woods,
batting at limbs and leaping over low shrubbery to find Broc
doubled over and spewing out his guts.

“
Wolves!” Broc declared
with a strangled gasp.

Iain followed his gaze to where Kerwyn and
Dougal were dragging the body out from under bracken and brush,
their faces ashen as they heaved out their friend by his arms. At
the sight of them, Broc doubled over to retch yet again. Were Iain
not suddenly so sick at heart himself, he might have been amused by
the sight of the strapping young lad doubled over before him.
Easily the tallest of them all, Broc, for all his bluster, bore a
woman’s heart, along with his much too bonny face.

“
Looks like something made
a feast of him during the night,” Dougal said grimly.

“
And buried him for
another meal,” Kerwyn added, his jaw clenching.

“
Och,” Dougal said,
shaking his head and grimacing, “but ye canna even tell ‘tis
Ranald, save for the breacan he wears.”

Iain walked to where they had dropped the
body, and stood looking down upon the lifeless carcass at their
feet. Both Kerwyn and Dougal averted their gazes, unable to peer
down into the mangled face and body of their kinsman.

“
What’ll we do?” Kerwyn
asked. “What’ll we tell his minnie?”

“
The truth,” Iain
answered, his gaze fixing upon the wooden shaft that protruded from
Ranald’s chest. He bent to examine the broken arrow, running a
finger over the jagged end. “Whatever that may be. Wolves may have
feasted here,” he declared, “but be damned if someone else didn’t
get to him first.” The wolves’ attack had been so ravenous, they’d
obviously broken the arrow in their frenzy. Iain considered the
broken arrow another moment, something about it niggling at him,
until Lagan, Kermichil, and Kerr broke into the copse where they
had gathered.

Eyeing Broc with lifted brows, Kermichil
then turned his gaze to the body, his lips twisting into a grimace.
“Christ!” he exclaimed.

With a keening cry of grief, Lagan came to
his knees at Ranald’s side. “Stupid bastard!” he lamented, letting
out another low, tortured moan. “Stupid, stupid bastard!”

Iain placed a hand to his cousin’s shoulder
and squeezed, comforting him, urging him to his feet. “There’s
naught we can do for him now, Lagan,” he said. Lagan came to his
feet, nodding, battling grief—a grief that was reflected in each
and every man’s eyes, though none spoke it openly. Each had
understood the risks they would face in coming to this place.

Iain removed his breacan and tossed it at
Dougal, his heart heavy with the task ahead. “Wrap him,” he
commanded, his voice hoarse. “He deserves a proper burial.” His jaw
clenched. “We’ll be takin’ him home to see that he gets it.”

“
Nay! Use mine,” Lagan
offered, his voice breaking and his eyes suspiciously aglaze. He
removed his breacan and tossed it at Dougal. Dou- gal tossed Iain’s
back to him. Iain clutched it within his fist, nodding his assent
when Dougal looked at him for approval.

Dougal nodded, and averted his face, scarce
able to meet Lagan’s eyes—all knew that the two had shared a
friendship that bordered on the familial. In truth, Lagan and
Ranald were more family than even Iain and Lagan were. Though he
didn’t begrudge it, the knowledge aggrieved Iain, for he was alone
in so many ways.

He had his clan, aye. And he’d had his
father, and he had Malcom, too, but never a sister to tease, nor a
brother to spar with. As a boy, he had, in truth, envied their
friendship. As a man, he’d held it in high regard. As chieftain, he
mourned the death of his kinsman.

Without a word they set to the task of
wrapping Ranald’s bloody body within the unsullied red, black, and
white folds of the MacKinnon colors.

Page was determined to make the boy realize
how much his silence in her father’s house had plagued her. Until
now, he’d quietly listened to her rebuke, his brows knit, his
little face growing more and more markedly resentful. She didn’t
allow it to dissuade her. After all, she’d spent weeks trying to
ease his fears and befriend him—and all the while he’d understood
every word she’d spoken to him. Somehow, it wounded her still that
he would simply distrust her out of hand. She’d tried so hard. “Why
did you not speak to make me aware you understood me, Malcom? I
wouldn’t have hurt you.”

He merely shrugged, though his expression
was one of irritation.

“
Did I not stand in
defense of you against my father?” Page asked him, making herself
more comfortable upon the ground beside him. She lifted her knees,
hugging them to her breast, and peered up to see what Angus and the
rest were doing. She found them all pacing still, and her brows
knit, for she hadn’t as yet discovered what it was that had them so
agitated.

She’d half expected they would be off and
away as soon as they’d gathered their belongings together this
morn, but here they sat still, waiting—though for what, she had no
notion.

“
Malcom... why did you not
trust me?” she persisted, glancing down at the small pile of dirt
he had raked into a heap between them. Reaching out, she swept her
palm over the ground, helping him to arrange the soil. “I
understand why you might have been afeared of my father. Your
father explained. But...”

He glanced up at her then, the indignation
in his eyes robbing her of words. “Because you said awful things
about my da,” he answered grudgingly. “You lied to me and said he
was bad!”

Page blinked, too taken aback to reply for
an instant.

“
You tried to make me not
like him!” he accused her. “And my da is guid! Ye dunno my
da!”

Jesu, but it hadn’t occurred to her that she
might have offended him. It hadn’t occurred to her because she’d
been more than prepared to believe the worst of his father.

Her face heated. She didn’t know what to say
in her defense. “I... I’m sorry,” she offered. “I suppose that I
did, but I—” But she didn’t get the chance to explain, for they
returned then, the MacKinnon and his men, like grim specters
marching from the woods, their faces leaden and their eyes
ablaze.

Page’s gaze focused upon the MacKinnon in
their lead. His gaze met hers, and for an instant, for the space of
a heartbeat, Page felt the incredible urge to flee. Her heart
thudded within her breast, and although she knew instinctively that
the anger within the depths of his amber gaze was not meant for
her, it made her tremble, nonetheless. She tried to look away, but
couldn’t, and in the blink of an eye, his gaze passed to his son.
The rigidness in his incredible frame seemed to ease at once.

It was only after she was freed from the
MacKinnon’s piercing gaze that she spied the mansized bundle borne
upon the shoulders of his men.

Page knew instinctively that it would be one
of their own, for she noted, too, that the body was wrapped within
the MacKinnon colors. Yet who it might be, she couldn’t begin to
conceive. Her gaze raced from man to man as she tried to recall an
absent face, but her mind drew a blank. These were not her people,
and she knew them not at all.

She stood at once, watching in horror as
they bore the body to their mounts. Both she and Malcom stared as
they hitched the unwieldy bundle to a horse. Only when they were
finished did she find herself able to peer down at Malcom.

His gaze lifted to hers, and in his
glistening eyes she saw that he knew without being told.

“
Ranald,” he said,
blinking away a lone tear.

chapter 14

They rode without speaking, their mood
somber and their faces grim.

Page felt as though she were part of a
funeral procession—a brooding stranger amongst grieving kin.

Ranald’s body had been strapped to the back
of Lagan’s mount, and though they’d taken great care to wrap him
tightly, the length of his body made it impossible for the blanket
to cover him completely. A leaden foot peeked out, waving at her
with every jouncing movement of the horse’s stride.

The sight of it turned Page’s stomach. Had
she chanced to eat anything this morn, she might have lost the
contents of her belly. As it was, she was in danger of no such
thing, because she hadn’t eaten anything at all. They’d begun the
search almost at once upon waking, and after the discovery of the
body they hadn’t seemed inclined to take the time to fill their
stomachs. Page could scarce blame them for their lack of appetite.
Though her own belly churned in protest, she doubted she could have
kept anything down for long.

She’d never seen a dead body before—in
truth, hadn’t as yet, for they hadn’t unveiled him. But she knew he
was there. Even had she been able to pretend the bundle was no more
than hefty baggage, the waving foot remained a grim reminder.

Though she tried to ignore the body, and the
foot, it was nigh impossible—particularly as they’d allowed her the
use of poor Ranald’s mount. Like dogs herding sheep, they kept her
girdled between them, making any sudden flight for freedom she
might undertake all but impossible.

Nevertheless, when the time was right, she
fully intended to try.

Jesu, but she couldn’t believe their
arrogance in giving her a mount—not that she wasn’t grateful, mind
you. She was more than pleased not to have to ride with the
MacKinnon again. His presence disturbed her. But she doubted they’d
simply have handed her the reins had she been a man. Did they
believe just because she was a woman she would not possess the
wherewithal to attempt an escape? Well! She loathed to disappoint,
but she would escape them, the very instant an opportunity
presented itself.