The MacKinnon's Bride (18 page)

As far as MacLean was concerned, Iain was
her murderer, for he had been the last to see her alive and he had
been the one at the window, while his daughter’s body lay sprawled
upon the jagged rocks below. Any chance for peace had been crushed
along with her that day.

In truth, looking at it through MacLean’s
eyes, it didn’t matter much whether Iain had pushed her from that
window, or whether he’d merely driven her to it. He was responsible
either way, and were Iain in MacLean’s shoes, he didn’t think he’d
give another daughter to settle any goddamned feud.

God help him, even to his own mind, he was
guilty. Somehow, he’d failed Mairi. He didn’t know what it was he’d
done to drive her out from that tower window, but he must have done
something.

Something.

He hadn’t loved her precisely. She’d been
much too reserved with her own affections for that, but he’d cared
for her nonetheless. And he’d wanted to love her. There just hadn’t
been enough time.

What had he done to drive her from that
window?

In the beginning, the need to know had
driven him near mad. It tormented him still. He must have done
something, but he couldn’t recall ever treating her unkindly. God’s
truth, but he’d set out to woo her, though he’d failed miserably.
To this day, the image of her standing before the tower window
haunted him—hair mussed, eyes wild, and that slight smile that made
the hairs upon his nape stand on end even after all this time.

He shuddered, willing away the graven image,
and asked his son, “And you dinna recall going to bed? Or waking in
the night?”

“
Nay, da,” Malcom answered
dejectedly. “I dinna recall.”

Iain ruffled his hair. “Dinna worry yourself
aboot it then.”

From what Maggie had told him, Malcom had
fallen asleep at table, over his haggis—not surprising when the boy
would and did do anything to keep from having to eat his pudding.
Maggie had tried to wake him, and upon finding him truly asleep,
had carried him to his bed. Feeling drowsed herself, she’d never
made it out of the room. She’d dozed while recounting him a story,
and had slept sitting beside the bed, her head pillowed within her
arms. It was only in the morn, after she’d passed auld Angus still
asleep at table, slumped over his plate, that she’d begun to
suspect. Glenna had fallen asleep in the kitchen, Malcom was
nowhere to be found, and no one had witnessed a bloody thing. What
Iain wanted to know... almost as much as who... was how in God’s
name they’d managed to drog the entire household with no one the
wiser.

He damned well intended to find out.

It occurred to him suddenly that he couldn’t
call Page Maggie. Och, but two Maggies in one household would be
one too many. He’d have to think of another name. He was certain
she couldn’t be enamored of Page, but how to broach the issue
without offending her... Or mayhap he wouldn’t broach it at all,
he’d simply call her by whatever new name he decided upon. If she
objected, he would simply have to set about finding her another,
until he found one she preferred.

When had he made the decision to keep her?
he wondered.

Christ only knew, he didn’t need the battle
of wills—nor was she a beast of burden for her fate to be decided
upon so easily, and yet those were precisely the reasons he wasn’t
about to let her go. Somehow, it had become crucial to him that she
not be hurt any more than he was certain she was hurt already. And
if she discovered her father didn’t want her...

He frowned. She still harbored hope that he
would come after her—bastard! He spied it upon her face, and in the
way she turned so often to peer behind. As though looking for him.
Iain almost wished the whoreson would pursue them, so she wouldn’t
be disappointed.

So that he might cast his blade into the
bastard’s stone-cold heart.

He’d thought to have the opportunity when
they’d found Ranald’s body, but Iain had seen no sign of
FitzSimon’s party since then. In truth, he hadn’t even then, save
for the evidence of Ranald’s body.

If not FitzSimon, who had gotten to
Ranald?

Who would have motive?

The possibility that one of his own might be
responsible made his gut turn. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to
think. Something lay at the edge of his thoughts, something, though
he could not capture it. Every time he came close, he heard the
ghost of the lass’ song in his ears.

Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee
lammie...

Christ, where had he heard the lay before?
Whose voice was it that haunted him?

The memory escaped him.

On the other hand, he was intensely aware of
the woman riding at his flank—of every glance she gave him, every
move she made. And aye, he was aware, too, that she was dropping
the scraps. He’d spied her at her mischief just about the time Broc
had. Iain hadn’t confronted her because the matter he’d been
discussing with Malcom had been more important. And just in case
she managed an escape, he fully intended to go back after them
tonight—gather just enough to thwart her. Her scheme wasn’t going
to help her any at all.

And he intended to discover what Broc was up
to. The lad was the last person Iain might have suspected of
recreancy, but the evidence was there before him. Iain had thought
at first that Broc meant to confront her, but even after their
heated discourse, the lass continued to drop her scraps. Whatever
his reason, Broc was aiding her. That much was plain to see.

Conspicuous as well were her continued
glances toward him. The yearning reflected within the depths of
those overwise brown eyes squeezed at his heart. It wasn’t Iain she
coveted, he thought, but the affection between Malcom and himself.
He sensed that even as he sensed the heat of her gaze upon him, and
God, he felt the overwhelming desire to take her into his arms,
soothe away her pain.

Emotions warred within him.

Bloody hell, but if she didn’t cease to look
at him with such obvious longing, he wasn’t certain he was going to
be able to restrain himself. He was only a man, after all, a man
too long without a woman. It was becoming more and more difficult
to recall himself to the fact that it wasn’t him she desired, but
something else he couldn’t give her. He didn’t have it in him to
give. Once he had thought to open his heart; now it was sealed
tighter than a tomb.

And still she drew him.

She was lovely, aye, but there was something
more.

It’d been a long time since he’d felt so
utterly distracted by a woman. Not even Mairi had affected him so.
His wife had been beautiful, but her heart had been poisoned
against him. Loving her had been a duty. Wanting her had been
unthinkable.

But he wanted FitzSimon’s daughter.

His warning to her last night had not solely
been to distract her, and the effect her glances were having upon
him was painfully physical. His body craved the things she silently
asked of him. Christ, but he might have been blind and still sensed
her presence.

Like a man thirsting for water, and maddened
by its scent upon the air.

He was on edge.

He turned to find her staring, and his blood
began to simmer. Brazen thing that she was, she held his gaze, her
dark eyes smoldering, reflecting a carnal knowledge he knew she
couldn’t possibly possess... or could she?

The possibility aroused him, evoked new
images. His heartbeat quickened.

Or was it his own reflection he saw mirrored
there in the fathomless depths of her eyes, his own dark
yearnings?

Suddenly her eyes sparkled with challenge,
or mayhap defiance, and she snapped the reins, urging Ranald’s
mount toward him. Iain turned away, recognizing the battle to come,
knowing it would be near impossible to watch her approach,
anticipate her, and still keep his reason when she confronted
him.

God’s truth, but for someone who was
supposed to be a hapless hostage, she acted more like a haughty
queen, snapping rebukes to Broc, and sending daggers with those
lovely eyes. Mostly in his direction and Iain could scarce keep
from grinning at the thought.

And then he sighed, for those beautiful,
wide brown eyes of hers were too expressive for her own good.

chapter 16

It was the look upon his face that provoked
Page—that arrogant twist of his lips that made her feel as though
he mocked her somehow.

What could he possibly know? The cur!
Certainly not that she was dropping the scraps of cloth—else he
would have put an end to it long ere now.

And lest he be a sorcerer,
nor could he possibly have divined her wicked thoughts. They were
hers, and hers alone to contend with, and if her cheeks were high
with color,
’
twas simply because the
wretched man had driven them forward, ever forward, never stopping,
never resting. She was weary. And she had to do the necessary,
besides—since after noon.

Page hadn’t complained even the first time,
determined as she was not to speak to a one of them. She’d long
determined that Broc was a flea-bitten moron! Scarce had he spoken
a kind word to her all day, and his only saving grace was that he
fiercely loved his little Merry Bells. Jesu, but she’d be willing
to wager he even slept with the beast—wouldn’t doubt that it was
where he’d managed to catch his fleas. And she was nearly certain
he had them now.

Just to be certain she didn’t fall heir to a
few, she edged her mount away from him, and tried not to be overly
amused when he bragged to Kerwyn about the animal’s keen intellect.
Kerwyn, for his part, ignored her. He listened to Broc’s boasts
with half an ear, and an enduring smile that suggested he’d heard
the tales before.

Then there was Angus. Angus was an
addle-pated old fool, staring at her as he did so oft—as though she
were some confounded riddle to be deciphered. God’s truth, but he
was unsettling her—nigh as much as his laird. Her only comfort lay
in the fact that he obviously thought the MacKinnon all the more
daft, for the looks he cast in Iain’s direction were decidedly
bemused.

And the MacKinnon... She’d already
determined how he made her feel.

Confused.

Hopeful.

Titillated.

And she’d be hanged before she’d let him
know it!

Her patience at an end, she snapped the
reins, spurring poor Ranald’s mount toward the lead rider. She
headed straight toward the MacKinnon, cursing the circle of mounts
that enclosed her. Be damned if they were going to keep her from
speaking her mind! Determined to have words with her tormentor, she
forced her way through the band of Scotsmen, ignoring the scores of
curses and warnings that flew at her back.

No one stopped her, and in less than a
moment, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had managed
to plague most every second of every waking thought.

Iain MacKinnon.

Even his name made gooseflesh erupt.

“
I demand you stop this
instant!” she insisted of him.

He lifted a brow, and his sensuous lips
curved with humor at her expense. “D’ you now?” he asked her. “And
what is it precisely you wish me to stop, lass?” When Malcom, too,
peered up at her, a little anxiously, he placed a hand gently to
his son’s shoulder, reassuring him. Page tried not to note the
simple fatherly gesture, and chose instead to focus upon her
anger.

She chafed over his arrogant tone of voice.
“I mean halt!” she said, indicating the cavalcade with an impatient
wave of her hand. She eyed his son prudently, imagining the boy
must think her a madwoman. She could scarce blame him; certainly
she felt like one. God’s truth, she’d felt discomposed from the
instant he had first set eyes upon her. Befogged. And then her gaze
returned to the MacKinnon’s glittering amber eyes, and she suddenly
couldn’t think at all.

Her heart leapt at what she saw in the
depths of his gaze.

Desire.

No mistaking it.

Like golden flames flickering at her, his
eyes sent molten heat through her body, making her skin prickle in
a way that was both agonizing and breathtakingly sweet.

Those eyes mesmerized her, invited her to
bask in their warmth.

An unwanted shiver coursed down her
spine.

She tried to ignore it, and failed
miserably. The assault upon her senses was too keen. Her gaze
lowered to his mouth, and she stared, unable to look away.

“
What is it ye would be
wantin’ me to stop, lass?” he asked, his voice husky and
low.

Her heart did a little somersault as she met
his gaze.

He blinked, waiting, and Page swallowed. “I
need to rest,” she clarified, slightly dazed, and more than a
little breathless. The thickened sound of her voice embarrassed
her.

He seemed to realize the effect his gaze had
upon her, for his lips curved a fraction more, and she stammered,
“W-we’ve b-been...”

He smiled suddenly, a devastating smile, and
the breath left her completely. Her stomach floated, and her heart
took wing, like the wind before a storm, flying into her
throat—like dry leaves swept helplessly upward by a merciless gust
only to choke within the gnarled limbs of trees.

“
R-riding all the morn,”
she finished lamely, swallowing.

He said nothing, merely deepened the smile,
and Page felt suddenly like a wretched waif whose tongue had been
cut out for merely stealing a taste of forbidden fruit. She felt
suddenly so meritless beneath his scrutiny. Jesu, but he was
beautiful... everything about him. Everything. From the curve of
his lips, to the contours of his face, the long lean length of his
body, and the muscled strength in his mostly bare limbs.