The MacKinnon's Bride (16 page)

For her sake, she hoped it came sooner
rather than later.

Having had so little sleep the previous two
nights, she struggled to keep alert. Every moment carried them
farther from Balfour, she knew, and lessened her chances for
escape. Out of sheer desperation, she had taken to tearing snippets
from her undershift and dropping them furtively upon the ground to
mark their path.

Ridiculous as it might seem, she had to do
something. She couldn’t simply sit here upon poor Ranald’s horse
and ride into oblivion. As of yet, no one had noticed, and she
praised God for that small stroke of good fortune.

By late afternoon she began to worry that
she wasn’t going to be afforded the opportunity to use the snippets
to find her way back. It was becoming more and more difficult to
tear at her shift without gaining notice, as the hem had long since
whittled to her knees. When the sun began to fade at last, she
resisted the urge to peer back to see how visible the tiny scraps
were. She couldn’t afford to have them suspect her.

While the MacKinnon hadn’t spared her more
than a glance in the hours they’d been traveling, the old man Angus
and the one they called Broc kept her, without fail, within their
sights.

Angus, for his part, seemed disinclined to
forgive her for her surly temper of the previous eve. The old man
frowned at her every time he chanced to peer her way. Well, she
didn’t care. She didn’t need the old fool to like her. Forsooth!
But she’d lived a lifetime without his favor. Why should she care
that some old goose she’d only just met, and wouldn’t know long—her
enemy at that—disapproved of her? She certainly did not!

Broc, on the other hand... She couldn’t
quite figure him out. Hours ago, she could have sworn he’d spied
her tearing her shift and casting the fragment upon the ground, and
yet he’d said nothing at all. He’d kept his silence, casting her
dubious glances now and again, but naught more.

Mayhap he’d not spied her, she wondered,
nibbling the inside of her lip.

Well, she’d soon enough nave her answer,
because it was time to tear another. She didn’t wish the scraps
planted too far apart—nor too close, lest she run out of shift to
rend. Though judging by the position of the sun, she thought they
might be stopping soon for the night. Running v out of material
didn’t seem to be her greatest concern—locating the scraps in the
dark would be. And yet there was no help for it.

Each time she dropped a scrap, Page tried
her best to note the surrounding landscape. She only hoped she
would be able to recognize the way come nightfall. In her favor,
the moon would be almost full again tonight. Its light should help
to guide her—if she found a way to escape, she reminded herself.
She wasn’t free as yet.

Mayhap she could talk the MacKinnon into
leaving her unfettered.

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible,
Page gathered her bliaut into her fist, raising her skirt. She
glanced about, as nonchalantly as possible, to be certain no one
was watching. No one was, and she quickly ripped another fragment
from her shift, then released her skirts, letting the hem fall once
more. Clutching the scrap within her fist, she tried to gather the
nerve once more to drop it.

She made the mistake of peering about then,
for she met the MacKinnon’s gaze, and her heart leapt into her
throat.

He was watching her over his shoulder...

Had he spied her?

Jesu! But nay... she didn’t think so, for
his face was a mask without expression. He held her gaze imprisoned
for an eternity, holding her as surely as though in physical bonds,
but his expression remained unreadable.

Page’s heart began to pound as she gripped
the cloth within her fist.

Drop it, she told herself. He wouldn’t see
it, for his gaze was riveted upon her face. With the flurry of
movement about them, the rise and fall of so many hooves, there was
no way he would spy it.

She couldn’t do it. His gaze held her
riveted and paralyzed, while her heart beat like thunder in her
ears.

And then he suddenly released her, glancing
away, back toward his son. Page felt the withdrawal acutely, and to
her shock, found she didn’t want him to go back to ignoring
her.

She stared at his back, feeling bereft in a
way she didn’t quite comprehend.

He’d ridden the entire day with his son, the
two of them talking, laughing, sharing in a way that made Page ache
deep down. God’s truth, she didn’t wish to feel this... this...
envy. It was deep and black and ugly, but she could scarce help
herself. Seeing the MacKinnon smooth the back of his son’s hair
with his open palm, the gesture such a loving one, filled her heart
with grief like she’d never known. It left her with an emptiness
she’d only suspected was there before now.

The undiscovered void.

All her life she’d filled it with
indifference and resentment, and in the space of a day these
people, the MacKinnon and his son, had revealed it.

Watching the way that he squeezed the boy’s
shoulder, the way that he leaned forward to almost embrace him, as
though he didn’t wish to embarrass the child, or himself before his
men, but couldn’t quite help himself, made her eyes sting with
tears.

She’d never known the feel of a hand upon
her shoulder, or the tender brush of a palm upon her face...

Her eyes closed and she remembered against
her will... the gentle way he’d held her face... the whisper-soft
way he’d spoken to her... It made her quiver still... made her
yearn for that moment once more.

How piteous, she thought, that she would be
reduced to such a shameful longing.

Like some Jezebel who cared not a whit who
her lover was, nor even whether she knew his name, only that he was
there when the lights were doused, she craved her enemy’s
touch.

Even knowing it was contemptible.

Even knowing he had betrayed her father.

Even knowing her father wanted her back.

Long after he’d turned away, Page clutched
the cloth within her hand, unaware that she did so.

She was startled from her thoughts by an
unfamiliar voice, and turned to find that Broc had somehow
maneuvered his way alongside her. He sat his mount beside her,
staring as though awaiting a response.

To what? What had he said? Jesu! And where
had he come from so quickly? She’d not heard, nor spied his
approach. Her heart hammered guiltily as she recalled the cloth in
her hand. She tried to conceal the evidence within the folds of her
skirt.

Broc glanced about, and
then turned narrowed eyes upon her. The spite in his expression
gave lie to the sweetness of his youthful face. “I said...
’
twill take more than a siren’s voice and a
pretty song to woo the rest o’ us, wench.”

For an instant Page didn’t understand what
it was that he was speaking of, and then it occurred to her that he
must be referring to the lullai bye she’d sung to Malcom the night
before. She stiffened in the saddle, offended by the conclusions
he’d drawn. “I was trying to woo no one!” she assured him. Nothing
could have been further from the truth.

“
Guid, then,” he said,
leering at her, “because ‘tis no one ye wooed.”

Page resisted the urge to throw the scrap
she held into his face. God only knew, she wanted to throw
something at him, but the cloth wouldn’t hurt him, she knew—would
likely make him laugh with glee, and then she would be left to
explain its existence.

“
I dinna ken why the laird
doesna simply leave ye,” he said nastily, “nor why he seems
compelled to save ye from your bastard da—but I’ve no such
compunction. ‘Tis your fault poor Ranald is strapped t’ the back o’
Lagan’s mount. Your fault, and no other, d’ ye hear me,
wench?”

For an instant Page was too stunned by his
accusation to do any more than stare up at the fair-haired giant.
Sweet Mary, but these Scots were each one taller than the other!
And their tempers, one more surly than the next!

How dare he place the blame for Ranald’s
death at her feet!

Refusing to cow to his charge, Page narrowed
her eyes at him. “How dare you accuse me, sir! I have absolutely no
idea what poor Ranald wandered into, but whatever it was, was of
his own doing—not mine! I assure you!”

He scratched idly behind his head.

“
So ye say.”

He couldn’t possibly think her responsible.
Could he? Her breath snagged at the sudden hope that spiraled to
life within her. Unless... If her father had come after her... “My
father?” she asked, and couldn’t conceal the note of hope in her
voice.

“
Nay,” the behemoth
answered, with unmistakable disgust, and then surprised her by
adding, “No such luck, wench. But he willna be rid o’ ye so
easily—I swear by the stone!”

“
So easily?” Page blinked
in confusion. “But... I don’t understand...” Her brows collided.
“What is it you are trying to tell me?”

He glowered at her. “Never mind, wench,” he
said, snaking his head, as though he thought she was too obtuse to
understand, and didn’t care to waste more words. He leaned closer
to speak in a whisper. “I didna come to speak o’ your whoreson da,”
he revealed, reaching back and scratching at his scalp. “But to
tell ye to drop the bluidy piece o’ cloth, already.”

Momentarily shocked, Page crushed the cloth
fragment within her fist and instinctively buried her hand deeper
within her skirts.

His lips twisted with unconcealed contempt
and his gaze shifted to the hand she’d shielded. “Drop the bluidy
cloth,” he charged her.

Page stiffened in the saddle, her gaze
flying about in alarm.

“
Och, wench, I’ll no’ be
exposin’ ye,” he assured her.

Her gaze snapped back to his face. “You...
you’ll not?”

He shook his head, eyes gleaming. “I want ye
gone, e’en more than you wish to go,” he swore. “But if ye willna
drop the accursed thing, wi’ our luck, ye’ll wander in circles and
end up right back in our bluidy camp.”

Page frowned, growing more and more
confused. “But... I... I don’t understand.” She shook her head.
“What of your laird?” She cast a nervous glance at the MacKinnon’s
back. “I... I thought he...”

“
Wanted ye?” The behemoth
snorted and then turned to glance at his chieftain. “A mon says
many things in a moment of... weakness.”

His gaze returned to Page, and her face
heated as she remembered the moment she and the MacKinnon had
shared the night before.

His moment of weakness.

What is it I have to fear? she recalled
asking him.

That I might want ye, he’d whispered.

Jesu! Had everyone else overheard, as well?
If Page had cared one whit what these people thought of her, then
she would have been riddled with shame. But she didn’t care, she
told herself. And she was not.

He scratched at his forehead. “I tell ye
true... the MacKinnon doesna want ye any more than the rest o’ us
do,” he told her.

Page said nothing in response, merely glared
at him. Somehow, his words wounded, though she told herself she
didn’t care. After all, wanting a woman in a moment of physical
weakness was certainly not the same as wanting for a lifetime. She
knew that.

“‘
Tis God’s own truth I’d
be doin’ Iain a favor,” he persisted. “He simply doesna wish to
have your death upon his conscience, is all. And he doesna have to
if you’ll but drop the bloody cloth.”

Deny it all she wished, but the truth pained
her. Her confusion intensified with the ache in her heart.
Something niggled at her... something... He didn’t wish to have her
death upon his conscience? And yet why should he have her death
upon his conscience unless he meant to kill her? And he didn’t want
her... but he’d taken her, nevertheless?

Something was not right.

He’d said he’d taken her out of revenge...
an eye for an eye, she reminded herself. And then, too, he had said
he’d wanted her. Last night. Or that he might want her—Lord, but
she was growing confused!

“
But...” Page averted her
gaze, unwilling to show him her pain, or the upheaval of her
thoughts. “He said—”

“
Never mind what he said.
Drop the cloth,” he commanded her quietly. “Drop it now, and then
keep them droppin’ till ye’re sittin’ bare arsed upon poor Ranald’s
mount. I’ll shield ye... and then I’ll help ye to escape when the
time comes. Do it!” he hounded her.

Page stared a long moment at the MacKinnon’s
back.

He was preoccupied with his son, never the
least aware of her presence. He didn’t want her—couldn’t
possibly—and why should he?

She peered at the rest of the men, watching
them a moment longer. Not a one of them seemed to be the least
concerned with the discussion she and Broc were having
together.

For truth, it seemed she was unwanted.

Jesu, but it seemed to be her destiny.

The ache in her heart intensified. Why? Her
brows drew together. Why should she care one whit what these people
felt for her? She couldn’t possibly have thought they’d want her,
after all? That they would take her as one of their own into their
fold? She couldn’t have possibly hoped?

How disgustingly foolish she was, for she
suspected that some silent aching part of her had longed for just
those things.

“
Drop it,” Broc demanded
again, and Page moved her hand out from her skirts. She held her
fist clenched at her side, concealed between them.

He eyed her closed hand expectantly, and she
was uncertain whether to drop the fragment or nay. It could be a
trap, she realized. In truth, he might well be trying to coax the
evidence from her hand...

And then again, nay, for all he would need
do was utter a single word to his laird, and then her ploy would be
finished... and he’d not done so.