The MacKinnon's Bride (2 page)

Mist crept about her feet, nebulous fingers wrapping
about her ankles, unsettling her. She didn’t consider herself an
overly fanciful person, but this instant, she might as well have
been a timid church mouse for all that her heart was racing.
Peering up at the sliver of moon that hovered above, she surged to
her feet, bending hurriedly to retrieve the remainder of her
garments.

Her eyes sought the metallic glimmer of her dagger
beneath the pile of her clothing, and the downy hairs at her nape
prickled when she failed to find it.

For the love of Christ, where could she have put
it?

What good were clothing if she were dead. Dumping
her gathered bundle, she lifted the other shoe to peer inside,
thinking mayhap she’d placed the small dagger within it, but it
wasn’t there, and she stifled a curse, fearing God was like to
banish her to purgatory for an eternity already for her
irreverence. Damnation, but she couldn’t help it.

Where could it possibly be?

Another twig snapped, closer this time, and Page
decided she didn’t need the dagger after all. No sooner was her
decision made when there was a hideous outcry. In the next instant
they
appeared—three barely discernible figures scrambling
from the woods.

She didn’t linger to discover their intent.

Shrieking in fear, Page bolted, flinging the shoe
behind her. An answering curse rang out, but she didn’t bother
turning to see what damage it may have inflicted—minimal, if any,
she was certain, for the sole was soft and worn with age—more’s the
pity! She would’ve hoped to pluck out an eye with it!

Spouting oaths she didn’t like to admit she knew,
she ran with all her might towards the castle, crying out for aid,
hoping Edwin, the gatekeeper, wasn’t so inebriated that he thought
her pleas a mere fancy of his cockeyed dreams. Blundering sot! If
he had been at his post to begin with, she might not be in this
predicament—she mightn’t have left the castle so effortlessly. And
yet she knew the fault was not his, but hers. She should have known
better—curse her rotten luck!

Her heart pounded faster with every stride she
took.

Like a death knell, the sound of their footfalls
came faster.

Closer.

She quickened her pace, surging forward with a burst
of energy born of terror. Ignoring the pain that flared at her
side, Page kept near to the stream lest she collide with the
enormous oak tree that guarded the pathway to the castle. God
forgive her, but she hoped they wouldn’t see it and break their
bloody necks for their efforts!

Her chest heaved. The pain in her side came sharper
as she raced past the old oak. Still they remained behind her,
their footfalls catching her shorter strides with too little
effort.

She wasn’t going to make it! She really wasn’t going
to make it!

Page wanted to weep with fear and despair.

Ahead of her, Balfour Castle loomed, a distant
silhouette against the ebony sky.

Distant and unreachable.

Like her father.

Her heart hammered.

She wasn’t going to make it!

Still she ran, nearly toppling headlong into the
water when the path curved too sharply before her.

Their voices chased her, indistinguishable and
alien, like bats in the darkness of a cave, flying at her from all
directions.

Jesu, where were they now?

Ahead of her? Behind? Where?

She wasn’t going to make it!

The stream wended its way before her, blanketed by a
sheet of mist. A glimmer of hope sparked. Mayhap they couldn’t
swim? She didn’t know many who could! Perchance she could lose them
beneath the mist!

A hand reached out, brushing her leg and nearly
snatching her shift, followed by a profusion of indecipherable
curses when her pursuer realized he’d missed. But the shock of his
touch made Page’s decision for her. She couldn’t afford to take the
time to consider the consequences. Arms flailing, she hurled
herself into the stream. Her legs followed like deadweight. She
landed smack upon her belly, icy water striking her full in the
face. The impact reverberated through her, numbing her senses, but
Page recovered her faculties quickly. Ignoring the sting of her
flesh, she swam with all her might toward the opposite shore, all
the while listening for sounds of pursuit behind her. Relief flowed
through her when there were none.

Thank God! Thank you, God! she prayed.

Even after reaching the bank, there was still no
evidence of her pursuers, only shouts and curses she couldn’t quite
decipher—coming from somewhere on the opposite shore. But she
didn’t dare feel triumphant. If they were even vaguely familiar
with the lay of the land, they would know that, but a few furlongs
ahead, the stream ended and they would once again meet en route to
the castle. Page didn’t intend to take that risk. Lifting herself
from the water, sopping to her bones, she made instead for the
sanctuary of the forest. They might expect her to run for the
castle—as instinct was crying out she do. Logic told her she would
fare much better doing the unexpected.

If she made it into the safety of the woods—and
perchance climbed a tree—she could wait for them to tire of
searching and then go home. They were likely no more than
brigands—she their luckless prey. She was certain that given the
choice of searching all night for some faceless woman to rut with,
or seeking out more profitable victims, they would tire sooner
rather than later and leave her be.

Encouraged, she ran, panting, her heart pounding.
Her wet undergown clung to her legs. Running, she tried not to trip
as she peered behind to make certain they were not following, and
once again relief surged through her, for there was no sign of her
attackers.

Euphoria washed over her.

Sweet Jesu, she was going to make it, after all!

That, regrettably, was her last coherent thought,
before she turned and collided with a tree.

At least Page thought it was a tree.

The impact knocked her flat upon her back and left
her reeling. She lay there, stupefied, staring up at a Goliath of a
man.

Jesu, but he was tall!

Within the instant, she was surrounded by the rest
of them. Their faces a blur in her benumbed state, they seemed to
be leering down at her, disembodied teeth shining in the
moonlight.

“
Och, mon, ye’ve gone and made her
daft!” she understood one to say.

“
Eh, she’ll come aboot,” assured
another.

Scots.

Bloody damned Scots.

She could tell by their brogue, but that was her
last thought before darkness swallowed her.

Chapter 2

The scent of grain surrounded her... golden fields
abloom... Page was running through them... running...
running...

For a befuddled instant, she thought she’d died and
entered the hallowed gates of Heaven.

Had they killed her already?

Nay... she didn’t think so.

A groan sounded in her ears and she thought it might
be her own. Her body felt... squashed... broken, detached
somehow.

At least she was able to feel!

Run, she commanded herself—run!

Her body jerked into full cognizance only to find
that she was being jostled between them inside a meal sack—a meal
sack, for the love of Christ! Tiny leftover grains stuck to her
face.

She wondered hysterically if they were going to kill
her now, stuffed as she was, like some pesky cat to be drowned in
the river!

At least the sack wasn’t filled with stones, she
reasoned.

But it seemed they were moving away from the bank...
into the woods… She sensed the darkness close about them and
struggled in vain, screaming until her throat turned raw. God curse
them! Her abductors seemed impervious to her struggles.

Hysterical laughter bubbled from the depths of
her.

Her father’s prophecy was about to come true. Jesu!
He’d always said she’d be her own ruin someday. That someday was
now.

She should never have come out at night to wade
alone. She should have brought Cora with her—now she was going to
die for her recklessness.

What an empty-headed fool she was!

“
Release me!” she shrieked,
tearing at the sack with renewed determination. “Release me at
once!”

Heart pounding, Page twisted and fought like a
savage, kicking and bucking against their hold upon the sack.
“Release me this instant, bloody rotten heathens—let me go!”

They broke into fits of laughter—but didn’t bother
to comply!

Well! She wasn’t about to make this painless for
them! Twisting and turning, she vowed that when they finally
released her, she was going to pluck out their eyes!

If only she had her dagger!

But it lay somewhere along the bank along
with—Mother of God!

Her struggles ceased at once with the realization
that she was half naked to boot! Pure hysteria welled within her.
She couldn’t have made it easier for them to ravage and murder her
had she sent them bloody invitations!

And no one would miss her.

Her stomach wrenched.

Aye, she’d be fortunate enough if her father even
noticed she was gone after a sennight. He was more attentive to his
Scots guest than he’d ever considered being to her. Well, she
thought despairingly, mayhap he would take note sooner, if only
because she seemed to have the most unfortunate gift for getting
herself into his ill graces—just as she had a genius for getting
herself into trouble! She was ill fated, to be sure! He was bound
to miss the mayhem.

Fueled with a fresh wave of desperation, Page began
her struggles again, only to be jabbed with a knee for her
efforts.

Damn their bloody heathen hides!

She didn’t care if they bruised her body until every
inch of it was blue, she wasn’t going to simply lie quietly while
they raped and murdered her!

The sound of new voices stopped her struggles
abruptly.

Suddenly, without warning, the sack was overturned
and she was tossed unceremoniously upon the ground.

Page shrieked in outrage.

Reeling, she surged to her feet, only to sway
dizzily backward and fall back upon her rump to stare, dumbfounded,
at the barest pair of limbs she’d ever laid eyes upon.

Strong male legs.

Bloody rotten luck.

Another giant.

Her gaze flew upward and locked with eyes that
gleamed with amusement at her expense, eyes that were filled with
arrogance and cool disdain. Sweet Jesu, but she’d seen that look
too oft to mistake it! Like everyone else, he’d peered down his
nose at her and found her wanting.

Well! She didn’t care what the dirty Scot thought of
her! Particularly as he was likely to be planning ahead to her
demise now that he’d changed his mind about the ravaging.

She didn’t look much like an earl’s daughter—more
like a drowned wretch, Iain thought—save for the eyes. Nestled
within them he spied all the haughtiness of her breeding.

Impudent little wench.

Like some mad, cornered hare, she looked ready to
pounce upon him. And yet, for the briefest instant, when she’d
first peered up at him, a flash of pain had shadowed those soulful
dark eyes. A trick of the moonlight, no doubt, for as quickly as it
had appeared, the look vanished, replaced by that fierce glare of
open defiance she now wore.

That and little else, he couldn’t help but note.

A shudder coursed through him, for he hadn’t missed
her bold appraisal of his legs. Had she been the least bit nearer
and chanced to peer up his tunic, she might have earned herself an
eyeful. Despite her bedraggled appearance, he found himself fully
aroused by the sight of her. Christ, that body—even cloaked in mist
and shadows, her graceful curves were more than discernible. Even
through the silken shadows, her perfect breasts rose to tempt him,
dark nipples plainly visible, teased by the cold night air.

His brows drew together as he considered her state
of undress. Garbed in little more than her sodden shift, she seemed
completely oblivious, in her anger, to the sight she presented to
his men.

Shaking his head over her foolishness, he made an
effort to dispel the images that accosted him: long luscious legs
wrapped about his waist... full, ripe breasts arched in passion,
beckoning to his lips... He knew the taste of them would be like
manna from heaven.

Bones o’ the bloody saints, he was just a bloody
man!

What sort of father allowed his only daughter to
roam free at will? At night, no less?

“
She was just where they said she
would be,” his cousin disclosed.

“
So she was.” Iain’s voice was
husky with lust he couldn’t quite eschew.

He didn’t want her, he told himself, shaking himself
out of his reverie. No good would come of wanting such an
impertinent wench.

He crossed his arms and glowered down at her. “D’ ye
make it a habit to bathe yourself afore God and man alike?” He
wasn’t certain why he’d asked the question; he knew she must. ’Twas
how they’d managed to find her, after all, and yet he found himself
oddly vexed over the notion.

She lifted her chin, denying him an answer, her dark
eyes flaring with undisguised anger, and Iain tried not to chuckle
at her mettle. Here she was, no more than a slip of a lass,
challenging him before his men, when even his enemies dared not
face him so directly.

Fools, all, for he intended to discover the name of
the Judas who’d dared to hand his son over to the bloody English
for barter. He planned to rip out the serpent’s tongue and stuff it
up his bloody arse!

The grim reminder of his business with FitzSimon’s
daughter turned his glimmer of good humor once more to rage. His
jaw turned taut, and he asked her pointedly, “Have you no tongue,
wench?”