The MacKinnon's Bride (17 page)

“
Unless ye dinna wish to
go,” he taunted her. Page met his mocking blue gaze. “Are ye so
smitten wi’ the MacKinnon already, English? D’ ye want him to want
you?” He lifted a pale brow in challenge. “Is that it?”

Glaring at him, Page opened her hand,
releasing the piece of cloth. It fluttered down between cantering
hooves.

He merely smiled. “There now,” he said.
“That wasna so difficult, was it?”

“
Scot!” She spat the word
as though it were a blasphemy, but he seemed impervious to her
anger. “Jesu! But I can scarce wait to be free of the lot of
you!”

“
Guid,” the giant said,
grinning. “Because the feeling is mutual.”

“
Bloody behemoth!” she
hissed at him. “Do you oft make it a practice to tyrannize those
weaker than you?”

His grin suddenly turned into a frown, and
he seemed genuinely insulted by her question. Good! Let him be!

“
I’d rather be a bluidy
behemoth,” he grumbled, “than an impertinent little
dwarf.”

Page straightened her spine, utterly
insulted. “I am not a dwarf, you despotic oaf!” She stared at him,
wondering if he was blind. “I am tall for a woman, I’ll have you
know—or mayhap Scots women all are bloody behemoths, too?” He
didn’t react enough to Page’s liking and she added spitefully, “Or
mayhap you wouldn’t know? Perchance all women run in fear of
you!”

Scarlet color crept up Broc’s fair neck and
into his pretty face, and Page was wholly shocked to find that her
words had unerringly hit the mark. With a face like the one he
possessed, she’d never have guessed. His blue eyes were clear and
bright, and his features well defined. He had not the stark,
masculine beauty of the MacKinnon’s face, but he was comely
nonetheless. Guilt stung her, though she told herself he deserved
every word.

“
Do you not have a woman,
Broc?” she asked, trying to soothe his bruised feelings, though she
knew not why she should.

The giant straightened his spine, his
disposition surly as he revealed, “I have a dog. What need have I
for a woman?”

He turned away, his face bright red, and
Page nipped at her lip to keep from grinning at his innocent
question—his even more callow reply. Sweet Mary, but even she knew
what a man needed with a woman! She’d certainly spied enough lovers
in the shadows of Balfour.

“
She’s a verra smart dog,”
he added defensively, though he didn’t bother to look at her. “The
smartest dog I’ve ever known!”

Page didn’t reply.

“
Loyal, too,” he added,
and she nearly burst into hysterical laughter at his plaintive
tone.

Good Lord! She continued to stare, and had
to resist the urge to breach the barrier between them, to put her
hand upon his arm and soothe his injured pride.

He scratched rather earnestly at his groin
area, and then the back of his ear, and Page grimaced, wondering if
he’d gotten fleas from sleeping with his dog.

“
What are ye looking at!”
he snapped, when he turned and found her staring.

She cringed at the harsh tone of his voice
and averted her gaze, determined not to banter words with the surly
giant any longer. Damnation, though she’d never admit it to him,
she’d certainly run in fear of him too!

Shielded by his towering form, she continued
to tear snippets from her shift and then drop them at intervals,
and though she cursed Broc’s arrogant presence beside her, he
didn’t break his word.

He didn’t give her away.

chapter 15

Of all Page wasn’t certain which was worse
to bear: the presence of the irksome giant beside her... the
gruesome foot waving at her from under the blanket on the horse
before her... or the sight of the MacKinnon riding at their
lead.

Like some heathen idol he sat his mount,
tall and magnificent in the saddle, his dark, wavy hair blowing
softly at his back. In the afternoon sunlight, the streaks of
silver at his temples seemed almost a pagan ornament, for the
metallic gleam of his braid was almost startling against his
youthful features. The sinewy strength evident in the wide set of
his shoulders and solid breadth of his back only served to
emphasize the fact that he might have killed her any time he’d
wished, with no more than a swat of his hand—that same hand that
caressed his son so tenderly now.

In truth, he’d not even spoken to her
harshly. He’d been naught but gentle, and it mightily confused
her.

In fact, he might have done anything he’d
wished to her, and no one could have stopped him. Scarce a handful
of men present were even as big as the MacKinnon, and only two were
taller—the man at her side being one of them. She cast him an
irritated glance. And yet she knew Broc would no more prevail
against his laird than he would consider rising up against him in
the first place.

None of them would.

Her gaze swept the lot of them. It was
evident that each and every man wholly embraced the MacKinnon as
their leader. Jesu, but it was almost comical the way they allowed
him the lead of their party. Like dogs, they followed wherever he
went—and if one man chanced to pass him by, Page was struck with
wonder that that man would unconsciously look to his laird, and
then slow his gait to allow Iain to pass once more.

The MacKinnon, on the other hand, seemed
oblivious to this ritual. He forged onward, his attention fixed
only upon his son, who sat before him in the saddle.

There was an undeniable air of authority
about him, one he wore with unaffected ease, and an air of total
acceptance from his men.

And yet, he obviously did
not oppress them, else the giant beside her would never be aiding
her as he was.
’
Twas evident by the way
that he looked at his laird that he did so only because he meant to
do him a favor. He seemed to think he was protecting the
MacKinnon—and did so rather vehemently, Page thought.

Well, who would protect her from the
MacKinnon? she wondered irritably.

Aye, she’d already determined that he’d not
harm her, but what of her heart, and her soul, and her body?

She was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t
comprehend, though she knew it was a dangerous longing. And still
she couldn’t stop herself from yearning.

For what? The sweet promise of his whisper?
The gentle touch of his hand?

His love? she thought with self-disdain.

Jesu, but it was growing more and more
difficult to keep her eyes from wandering in his direction.

Particularly so given his meager state of
dress.

The short tunic and wayward breacan exposed
a sinfully bare thigh as he rode. And he seemed completely
oblivious to the fact that the wind every so oft lifted his blanket
for a tantalizing glimpse of the man beneath. Jesu, but she tried
not to look—she truly did—but she could scarce keep herself from
it, for the beauty of the man seduced her, stole her breath
away.

Her heart quickened, for she was once again
accosted by the image of them lying together upon his breacan...
the way he’d taken her hand...

She swallowed at the memory, her throat
feeling suddenly too raw.

Lord! She was a woman, was she not? No
child. Why did every need have to be emotional? Mayhap it wasn’t
love that drew her, after all. Why couldn’t it simply be that she
wanted the things she knew instinctively he could give her as a
man? Though she was innocent in the ways of men and women, she was
no half-wit, by God! She was wholly aware of the way he made her
feel... bold and breathless... achy.

It was a physical thing, for certain.

Aye, she wanted his arms about her. What was
so wrong with that? Certainly she wasn’t the only woman who had
been so inclined? Why was it that a man could want these things but
a woman could not?

Why was it that a woman’s needs were to be
masked by such a thing called love? Love was certainly overrated,
she thought, and she wasn’t even sure it existed.

So then, if there was no such thing as
love... wasn’t the mask a lie? Wasn’t it truly a weakness to fall
back upon this myth? Wasn’t it better to be honest with oneself and
admit the truth of the matter—that it was lust, instead?

Aye, she truly thought so... and though the
MacKinnon might be her enemy, she was drawn to him in the way a man
attracts a woman. Nothing more. Lust was uncontrollable, was it
not? It was a primal thing that lured and seized one’s senses. And
every waking thought. That’s what men claimed, at any rate. She’d
heard more than a few faithless husbands tell their wives just
so.

She stole a glance at the MacKinnon, just as
the wind whipped, lifting his breacan and tunic. Her breath caught,
and her body betrayed her then. Her heart began to thump against
her ribs.

Like warm spiced mead, heat slid through
her, burning her flesh, and making her mouth go drier than
sun-dried leather. The movement of the horse between her thighs
quickened her breath, even as the sight of the MacKinnon awakened
her body to life. Her hand fluttered to her throat, and then slid
down the front of her gown; she paused at her breast, marveling at
the sensations that stirred there.

Sweet Jesu. He was the only man who had ever
made her feel...

She closed her eyes and lifted her hand,
caressing the bared flesh at her throat, imagining his hand there
instead...

He was the first man ever to have awakened
her body to life... the first whose touch she’d ever craved... the
first man who’d ever wanted her...

Aye, and she wanted him to want her, but it
wasn’t his love she yearned for, she told herself. She was no dog
to go begging for affection, but a woman whose body was not made of
cold steel.

She wanted him, she admitted wantonly.

And she wanted him to want her.

Her enemy.

Her eyes flew open, and her breath caught as
she looked about anxiously, praying no one had spied her at her
wicked musings. Her cheeks flamed with mortification.

Her gaze settled upon the man who had so
easily and without trying invaded her every thought.

He was wholly unaware of her.

He rode with his son, oblivious to the
reactions of Page’s treacherous body. Her brows drew together, and
she nibbled the inside of her lip. What a fool she was!

He didn’t want her, she berated herself.

Whatever had possessed her to believe him
when he’d said he did? The man riding before her could have any
woman he so chose. And Page was no man’s choice.

Not even her own father’s.

Which brought her to wonder .. . whatever
had Broc meant when he’d said that the MacKinnon felt compelled to
save her from her da? She stole a glance at the behemoth riding
beside her. But he willna be rid o’ ye so easily, I swear by the
stone, she heard him say to her again, and she blinked. Her father?
Her father wouldn’t be rid of her so easily? A feeling of unease
sidled through her.

The one thing she knew for certain was that
somehow, she needed to find a way back home.

She was desperate to find a way to
escape.

Iain placed a hand to his son’s shoulder,
squeezing gently, with a desperation that belied the reassurance of
his touch. “Try to remember, Malcom...”

For a long instant there was silence between
them, as Malcom tried desperately to do as was bade of him. “I
canna, da,” he answered unhappily. “I only remember wakin’ up.” His
son peered up at him, and his little brows were drawn together in a
frown.

“
Wi’ David?”

His answer was a soft child’s murmur.

“
Weel, then, son, dinna
fash yourself. ‘Tis no failing o’ yours that you canna
remember.”

Malcom nodded, and Iain asked, “They didna
hurt you, did they?”

Malcom shook his head.

“
Guid,” Iain said. If he
discovered elsewise, he’d have to turn his mount about and strangle
the first Sassenach neck he encountered. “Tell me one more time,
son... and I willna trouble you with it for a while more... Tell me
exactly what you remember about that night.”

“
I only remember eating...
and then I was sleepy,” he said.

“
Who was there eating wi’
ye, d’ ye remember that much?”

“
Ummm... auld
Angus?”

He sounded so uncertain
that Iain had to wonder how much of the sleeping drog they’d given
him. Christ, but
’
twas a wonder they’d not
killed him! His anger mounted once again, though no one could have
suspected by the ease of his posture. Only the muscle ticking at
his jaw, as he listened to his son, gave testament to his
incredible fury. “I know aboot Angus... Anyone else,
son?”

“
Maggie,” Malcom declared.
“And Glenna— and Broc.”

Most every man had been with Iain, save for
Angus and Broc, he reflected. And Lagan.

But Lagan had been brawling again with auld
man MacLean over his youngest daughter. His cousin had long ago
taken a liking to the dun- haired lass, but MacLean had sworn he’d
never trust another of his lasses to MacKinnon men. Iain couldn’t
say as he blamed the man.

Mairi’s death had not been by his own hands,
but the fault lay still upon his shoulders. He should have known.
He should have stopped her somehow. And he might have, had he not
been holding their son.

Malcom. He’d long grieved for Malcom, for
she’d abandoned him as surely as though she’d slapped his face and
then walked away. Christ, but he loathed her for that.

And for leaving him with her blood upon his
hands.