The MacKinnon's Bride (25 page)

How could she have given herself so freely?
Loved him back without compunction?

Not love. Anything but love.

Lust, she tried to convince herself. It was
lust, simple and true.

So, then, why did the sting of tears
persist?

And why did her heart feel suddenly so heavy
as though it were weighted with stone?

Stiffening at the delicate brush of fingers
across his back, Iain peered down, trying to determine whether Page
slept or nay.

It was a lover’s caress. A sleepy lover’s
caress that stirred his senses and started his pulse to pounding.
He thought she might have awakened, but she didn’t open her
eyes.

No matter, he took pleasure in holding her
so. She was so light, delicate within his arms, fragile
even—despite the invulnerable facade she put forth. She appeared at
first sight to be as sturdy as the stone walls her father had
erected about his keep, but remove a single brick, and her walls
came toppling down.

She’d been exhausted after he’d loved her so
thoroughly, so much so that she’d fallen asleep within his arms as
he’d stroked the damp wisps of hair back from her face. Och, but
this he relished more than he should... the trust she’d placed in
him to so easily fall asleep within his embrace.

It was a simple show of faith, one that
endeared her to him more readily than even her enduring nature. It
was something he’d never had from Mairi. Trust. Something he would
never have dared even hope for.

Instead, his wife had withdrawn from their
bed to that infernal window, where she’d stood staring into the
night. He’d listened to her weeping, and watched her quiet
revulsion for the act of love they had committed, and his heart had
wept pure blood.

Once she’d conceived, he’d never touched her
again—nor had she desired him to by the way she so studiously
avoided him. She’d carried his bairn without sharing a single
whisper of him, had mourned every moment she’d nurtured his babe
within her womb, as though it were an abomination of her being.

His son had been magnificent.

Aye, Malcom was everything he’d ever hoped
for in a son; free of spirit and unafraid to love. It was something
Iain envied of him.

Page... he smiled at the memory of her
halting acceptance of the name he’d chosen for her: Suisan. It gave
him pleasure to think of her so. Her response to him... her
openhearted acceptance of his loving—not mere acquiescence—was like
a balm for his soul.

God, but it made him dream again, opened
doors in his heart he’d never known were closed.

She wiggled away from him slightly and he
reached out, never touching, but tracing the out line of her belly
with his palm, imagining his babe growing there. It gave him a
fierce pleasure. He’d withdrawn each time before planting his seed
within her body, but couldn’t keep himself from imagining her belly
swollen with his bairn.

He wanted to do it again... so badly—love
her, aye, but more than that, to give her his child. He’d thought
his chances were all gone. All the things he’d wanted to do with
Mairi and never could... place his hand to her belly, feel the
first stirring of life from their bairn... touch his cheek and lips
to her body where it nurtured their babe... lay her naked upon his
bed each morn and every night to study the glorious changes in her
body.

All those things he suddenly found himself
wanting with the woman lying so serenely within his arms.

It made his heart full with joy and alight
with anticipation merely to think of it.

Damn, but he had to chuckle at the look auld
Angus had given him when he’d come bearing her back to camp—a
mixture of outright indignation and reluctant approval. The old man
had been after him long enough to get himself a woman, but Iain
thought he might have favored one a little less vexing. He chuckled
softly, for in truth, he might have preferred one a little less
troublesome, as well.

The little termagant.

Och, but the truth was, he loved her spirit,
including her tempers, for they were evidence that her soul burned
with life. No quiet, seething, mourning woman was she. Nay, she was
passion incarnate, feeling everything, be it anger, or lust—and
love?—to its fullest degree.

His cousin, on the contrary, had been wholly
disapproving, if the look upon his face was any indication. Too
bad. Iain had long since abided by his own decisions, and it was a
lifetime too late for Lagan to insinuate himself upon them. His
cousin would simply have to learn to live with the Sassenach
spitfire in their midst—as would the rest of them, for he intended
to keep her.

As for himself, becoming used to her
presence was an undertaking he suspected he was going to wholly
enjoy.

Thoughts of his cousin brought a pensive
wrinkle to his brow.

Lagan had been acting strangely of late,
brooding incessantly. Ever since his quarrel with auld man MacLean
over his youngest daughter. Mayhap he should talk to the MacLean
himself—much as he was loath to—for Lagan’s sake. Mayhap there was
something he could do, as yet?

And mayhap not; auld MacLean loathed the
hell out of him, for certain. His mediation was more like to drive
the wedge more firmly betwixt them.

“
Da! Da!”

Malcom’s shrill cry of alarm pierced his
thoughts like the blow of an ax. He pivoted about, heart lurching,
to find his son unharmed, but pointing wildly.

“
Ranald’s gettin’ away!”
Malcom shouted. “Ranald’s gettin’ away!”

Iain’s brows drew together at his son’s hue
and cry. How the hell could Ranald possibly do that, dead as the
bastard was. Following the direction of Malcom’s pointed finger, he
caught sight of the crisis that held his son’s concern. Ranald’s
body had somehow snapped free of its bindings—not the bindings, he
realized, upon closer inspection. The harness had snapped, and
while Ranald was tethered still, the saddle was slipping free. Even
as he fully absorbed Ranald’s predicament, Ranald broke free
suddenly, and began tumbling down the steep hillside, losing the
saddle after the first violent turns. The tartan about him
unraveled with every subsequent roll.

“
Christ!” he muttered.
Damn, but Ranald must have earned himself one hell of a curse
during his lifetime. Iain doubted a dead man had ever had such
bloody misfortune!

A few of his men vaulted from their saddles
at once, and for the second time in the space of a day, went in
pursuit of Ranald’s errant body.

Iain cursed roundly as he peered down,
frowning, into Page’s blinking eyes.

She was awake, staring up at him. “I didn’t
do it!” she swore at once.

chapter 21

There wasn’t a grimace-free expression
amongst the faces staring down at Ranald’s body. Between the
wolves, the plunge into the lake, his wet blankets, and the roll
down the hill, Ranald was, without a doubt, the worse for his
wear.

Page stood silently amongst the gathered,
her face screwing in revulsion at the sight of the body lying so
twisted before them. Her guilt was tremendous, for she knew she
shared some measure of blame for the poor man’s misfortune. Lord,
but her father had always said she could tax a dead man’s soul, and
it seemed he was certainly correct, for this particular dead man
was about as taxed as a soul could be.

Even so, she simply wasn’t about to take all
the blame! She certain hadn’t killed the man to begin with— neither
had she set the wolves against him. She had, however, dumped him
into the lake during her escape. Of a certainty his wet blankets
hadn’t done his appearance any service. God’s truth, he’d not been
the most comely fellow she’d ever set eyes upon to begin with, but
now he was fairly grotesque. She wrinkled her nose and turned away.
Jesu, but it was a good thing she had such a strong fortitude.

“
I’ll no’ be puttin’ him
on my horse!” Dougal interjected suddenly, his tone fraught with
disgust, his expression revealing as much.

“
Neither mine!” announced
Kerwyn. “Turns my belly sour just to look at him.”

Broc’s too, apparently, Page noted, a little
bemused by the behemoth’s reaction to the dead man. In truth, he
hadn’t even come nigh to the body, and still he knelt away from the
gathered crowd, retching and making the most ungodly sounds Page
had ever heard in her entire Life.

Although she was loath to intrude, she
wandered near to him. “Might I help?”

Broc seemed momentarily bewildered by her
question. “Help me spill my guts?” he answered, peering up at her,
frowning a little. “Why should ye wish to help me, wench?”

Page shrugged and gave him a slight smile.
“Because you’re not so very rotten as you think.”

“
Aye?” he asked. “Says
who?”

Page’s smile deepened despite his glare.
“Says me,” she replied pertly. “My thanks to you for trying to help
me this mom... Broc.”

“
Sassenach wench!” he
replied without heat.

“
Behemoth,” she answered,
grinning.

He ceded the tiniest hint of a smile.

“
Aye, well... for all the
guid it did me,” he quipped. “Ye dinna get verra far, now did
ye.”

“
Nay,” Page replied, her
cheeks heating at the memory of her capture at his laird’s hands.
She felt in that instant as though every guilty pleasure was
written there upon her face. What must he think of her? What must
they all think of her? Jesu, but she really didn’t wish to know.
“I-I did not,” she lamented, and then ventured once more, “May I...
that is to say... are you feeling better now?” Somehow, it suddenly
seemed important to her that they not think of her unkindly—not
even the surly behemoth kneeling so pitifully before
her.

His “brows collided into a fierce frown.
Dinna fash yourself’o’er me,” he snapped. His gaze skidded away.
“Go away now, and leave me be.”

Moody wretch. Page
glowered at him, but didn’t persist. She moved again toward the
gathered crowd, thinking that
’
twas no
wonder these Scots were forever at war. Churlish beasts.

“
Christ, but he stinks to
Heaven!” Kermichil swore, grimacing. But he didn’t look away, Page
noted. He stared, seeming fascinated by the body before them. It
seemed morbid curiosity kept them all rooted to the
spot.

“
He doesna e’en look like
Ranald anymore,” Lagan lamented, shaking his head in a gesture of
regret. And yet his eyes revealed nothing of the sentiment as they
shifted to Page. Only the depths of his anger lingered then. He not
only blamed her, she realized, he loathed her.

She didn’t know why, but he disturbed her
somehow—for more reason than that he simply didn’t like her. It was
something more. She shuddered, unnerved by the look he gave her,
and turned away.

“
Poor damned Ranald,”
Angus answered gruffly.

“
Damn but he’s no’ riding
wi’ me either,” Kermichil interjected.

“
Poor bastard,” someone
chimed in.

“
Aye, poor damned
bastard,” came the echo.

There was a long interval of weighted
silence as they all stared, nodding in agreement.

“
Och, Iain... mayhap we
should leave him,” suggested Dougal.

Iain’s brows drew together. “Nay,” he
declared at once. “He’s deservin’ of a proper funeral! We’ll no’ be
leaving him here to rot!”

“
Weel...” Dougal put
forth, a little fretfully. He scratched his head. “I’ll no’ be
ridin’ wi’ him, that’s for certain.” He peered nervously up at
Iain. “I dinna think I could stand it!” he added
quickly.

Page didn’t particularly blame him, as she
didn’t think she could either. Her brows knit. Jesu, but someone
would have to take him. Iain intended to ride with his son, and
he’d given her Ranald’s mount to use for herself—against his men’s
wishes, it seemed. Nor did they appear overly appreciative of the
fact that he’d given her his saddle and harness after Ranald’s had
been rendered unusable in the fall. They said nothing over the
fact, but she knew by the looks upon their faces that the decision
curdled in their bellies.

“
Nor I,” Kerwyn joined
them in saying.

“
Nor me,” Kerr said,
grimacing.

“
Nor Broc either!” Angus
announced with no small measure of disgust. “Och, but look at him
over there, pukin’ his guts like a wee bairn! For a muckle lad he
has the weakest damned belly this auld man’s e’er seen!”

“
Ranald’s coming wi’ us,”
Iain maintained.

Lagan remained silent, staring at Page.

“
Och, Iain!” Dougal began,
and stamped his foot like a petulant child. “I dinna want to ride
wi’ him!”

“
What would ye have me
tell his minnie, Dou-gal?” Iain asked. His jaw tautened in
anger—the muscle working there the only evidence of his carefully
controlled temper. “Mayhap ye would like t’ have the pleasure of
explaining how we forsook her only son to the wolves and the bluidy
vultures?”

Dougal’s face reddened. He shook his head,
hanging it shamefully, and stared disconcertedly at the foot he
stabbed into a trampled patch of muir grass.

Page could see in their faces the aversion
they felt over riding with a dead man—she couldn’t blame them. It
was a loathsome prospect, one she wasn’t particularly keen upon
herself, but she certainly didn’t wish to see Iain angry. Years of
trying to avoid her father’s tempers made her yearn to speak up.
One look at the putrid body kept her tongue stilled.