The MacKinnon's Bride (26 page)

“
Och, but we’re a
miserable lot!” Angus began, the tone of his voice making Page
cringe where she stood. “A miserable lot o’—”

“
I-I’ll ride with him!”
Page suddenly blurted, startling even herself with the offer. She
regretted the outburst at once.

Every gaze snapped up and trained upon
her.

Jesu, but his state was partially her
responsibility, she reasoned frantically. And mayhap she would
please Iain by keeping the peace for him? Perchance even gain his
men’s acceptance by saving them Ranald’s undesired company?

Though these were not her people, she
rationalized, she would need endure their company only until her
father showed himself to claim her. And he would come, she told
herself. He had to come.

Mayhap he was rallying his men even now?

“
I... I... do not...
mind,” she lied with difficulty. Jesu, but the disgust was surely
there to be seen upon her face!

Like that first night, they all stared at
her, mouths slightly agape, saying nothing, only this time Page
refrained from adding her acid wit. As she watched, their faces
reddened, some of their expressions grew incredulous, some
doubtful, and she backed away a pace. She cast a dubious glance at
Iain and found him scowling fiercely. Lord, what had she done?
Committed some cardinal Scots sin with her offer?

She met his eyes, searching.

Iain stared, blinking, scare able to believe
his ears.

He’d been about to speak up and resign
himself to carry Ranald when she’d beaten him to it. That she would
be willing to subject herself to such an unpleasant task for her
own kindred’s sake would have stunned him well enough
already—particularly as his own men, Ranald’s friends, were all
loath to bear up to the responsibility. Christ, but that she would
be willing for Ranald’s sake was inconceivable.

Judging by the expression upon his men’s
faces, they were every one as stupefied by her unanticipated offer
as was he. If he weren’t so bloody provoked by the lot of them, he
would have laughed at the response she’d managed to elicit from
them. Damn, but she was priceless. In that instant he admired her
immensely—wanted to draw her into his arms and kiss her soundly
upon those delightful lips of hers.

And that’s not all he wanted to do to her.
God, but she was endearing standing there, looking so beautifully
anxious, her wide brown eyes so wary and yet forewarning. Her dress
had, without doubt, seen better days, and yet it didn’t matter.
Upon her it might have been made of spun gold. She filled it
exquisitely, her breasts high and firm. He remembered the supple
feel of them within his hands, beneath his fingertips, and felt
himself harden, his blood pulse, at the mere thought. Worn as it
was, the dress clung to her every curve like gossamer webs to bare
flesh. Her hair. He suddenly wished he’d taken the time to unplait
it and thread his fingers through the sunlit length. There would be
another time, he decided. Damn, but he suddenly felt grateful to
her bastard father. Aye, for she was a gift, not a burden. He gave
her a wink, and her tension visibly eased.

“
Weel,” Angus began, his
face screwing thoughtfully.

“
I’ll take him, da!”
Malcom offered eagerly, tugging at his father’s breacan. “I’m a big
boy. I can take him! Aren’t I, Angus?” He turned to look at the
surly old Scot.

Angus’s brows lifted. “Ye’re a muckle lad,
all right, but ye’re no—”

“
Bluidy hell! Let her
carry Ranald!” Dougal broke in furiously. “Why should we give up a
horse for her? ‘Tisna our fault her da didna want her!”

Page froze at the declaration, her gaze
flying to Dougal. For an instant she wasn’t certain she’d heard
correctly. The suddenly wary expressions upon the faces staring at
her told her differently. Her heart twisted as she turned to meet
Iain’s gaze. “What... what did he mean... that my father did not
want me?”

“
Dinna listen to Dougal,
lass.” She saw the truth in his eyes, though he denied
it.

“
Did my father not want
me?” She persisted, her body tense, her breath bated while she
awaited his response.

He stood silent, staring, refusing to
answer, and Page saw in his expression the one thing she could not
bear. Pity. She saw his pity, and her heart filled with sudden
fury—fury at her father for discarding her so easily, fury at Iain
MacKinnon for lying to her—fury at herself for wanting something
that could never be.

“
I’ll take the poor
bastard!” Broc announced, elbowing his way into the gathering.
“I’ll take him! It isna right to let her bear the burden! What’s
wrong wi’ the lot o’ ye anyhoo?” He glared at Dougal particularly,
and pointed out, “We’re his friends!”

The silence that fell between them might
have lasted an instant, or an eternity, Page didn’t know. She felt
benumbed.

“
I’ll take him,” Kerwyn
relented, shoving Dougal angrily.

“
Nay... I should,”
Kermichil suggested, casting a glower in Dougal’s
direction.

“
Mayhap I should,” Kerr
yielded, and he, too, gave Dougal a fierce glare. “Look what ye’ve
gone and done,” he said, casting a glance in Page’s
direction.

Shamed into it, Dougal relented. “Verra
well! I’ll carry the stinkin’ whoreson!”

“
Nay! I said I would take
him!” Broc argued. “Och, but you’ve gone and done enough already,
ye bluidy mewling bastard!”

Page was scarcely aware of the glance Broc
cast in her direction, but she felt his pity like a mountain of
ash, blackening her mood just as surely as had she wallowed in it.
She didn’t fool herself into believing the behemoth cared for her.
Nay, but he felt sorry for her. And that was the very last thing
she wished from any of them.

If she hadn’t been so staggered by Dougal’s
disclosure, she might have been amused by the fact that they were
all fighting now over who would carry Ranald. Brawling Scots. She
moved away from the dispute, wanting to weep, but refusing to shed
a single tear.

Jesu, but her father didn’t want her.

Had he refused outright? Or simply refused
to deal with Iain? Or wasn’t it really the same?

Iain pitied her. He must. Surely they all
did!

“
Lass,” Iain began, coming
up behind her and placing a hand gently to her shoulder.

Page shrugged away from him, infused with
anger. “Don’t touch me!” she spat, and whirled to face him. “How
dare you lie to me! How dare you!”

He was silent in the face of her accusation,
his expression pensive as he stood staring.

“
Why did you lie to me?”
she asked him, and then regretted the question at once. She knew
why, of course. He pitied her! She was the wretched, unwanted
daughter of his enemy—and he pitied her! “What did he say—my
father?” she demanded to know. “How did he refuse me?”

“
Och, lass, does it
matter?”

Her fury mounted with the reminder that he
could not even say her name. “Aye, it matters! Aye! Did you not
believe I had a right to know?”

She suddenly recalled the moment he’d come
riding into the clearing with his son, the way he’d looked at her,
and so much made sense. The looks upon all their faces—the shock
when the MacKinnon had declared his intent to carry her home. The
resentment they all seemed to feel for her. Broc aiding her in her
escape...

She could scarce bear the thought of it
all.

He seemed to consider her question, opened
his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He shook his head. “It
matters not, lass... You’ve a home wi’ us.”

Page made a woeful keening sound, and her
throat closed with a tide of emotion. She swallowed. “Like some
stray animal brought in out of the storm?” She swallowed again, and
let her anger become a balm for her pain. “I think not. What if
I’ve no wish to make my home with you? Jesu! Why would I care to
live amongst a rude band of Scots who cannot even seem to get along
among themselves!” She didn’t care if she was being cruel. She
wanted to be—wanted to lash out and wound. That he had the audacity
to stand there and seem unfazed by her churlish remark only made
her all the angrier.

All this time he’d known how her father had
felt! All this time he must have pitied her! Somehow, it blasphemed
even their lovemaking, for how could he have wanted her? God, but
not even her father wanted her! Jesu, she couldn’t bear it.

“
I have a right to know!”
Page persisted.

He stood silent, his stance unyielding, his
lips tight with displeasure.

“
Did he refuse you
outright?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink, merely
stared.

“
Did my father refuse
you?”

He turned away, his jaw taut, and shook his
head with what Page perceived to be disgust. “Aye,” he said. “He
did, lass.”

Page felt the very life leave her suddenly,
all her hopes, everything. Her legs would have given beneath her,
but there was nowhere to lean, save her own two feet. As ever. Her
voice sounded frail even to her own ears. “What did he say?”

He turned to look at her, seeming to study
her, and then said, “He simply refused, is all. He said naught.”
And then he turned away abruptly, as though he could scarce bear to
look at her.

“
I see,” she said, and
somehow knew he was keeping the worst from her. Her father’s
cruelty? Hah! She knew it already, didn’t he realize? She
understood better than he did how brutal her father’s words could
be. How many times had he taunted her that she was no man’s
daughter? Certainly not his own? That she couldn’t possibly be his
own flesh and blood? How many times had he told her she was
unlovable? Despicable?

More times than Page could recount.

She wanted in that moment to tell Iain to
fly to the devil—that she didn’t need him, or his charity, but it
would be a ridiculous thing to claim.

She did need him.

What were her choices, after all? To live
here in the woods with the beasts of the forest? To go crawling
upon her knees to a king who would as likely spit in her face as
not? Nay, she had no options, save for the one Iain MacKinnon
offered her. And God’s truth, rather than feel grateful to him, she
loathed him for it, and she wasn’t even certain why. Because he’d
witnessed her shame? Because he’d made her feel wanted? Only to
turn about and discover that he didn’t truly want her at all? That
no one did. The knowledge filled her with a grief she’d never
allowed herself before to feel.

Somewhere, in the dusty, cobwebbed recesses
of her heart, she had dared to believe that he’d been enticed by
her—that he’d taken her because he’d wanted her. Not so. He’d
pitied her—had been forced to bring her along solely because he had
a conscience. Simple as that.

And their afternoon? A simple tryst. No
more. He was a man, and she a woman, after all, and he had needs
that she could satisfy. And, God save her soul, she had done so
readily, wantonly.

Remembering the bloom in her hand, she
opened her fist, only now realizing she’d held it so tightly
closed, and stared at the crushed crocus. She was too disgusted
with herself to even feel chagrined that she’d held on to it for so
long. It was faded now, its petals worn and veined. Pursing her
lips in self-disgust, she tossed the blossom to the ground, turned,
and walked away, not daring a glance backward at Iain MacKinnon
lest he spy her shame upon her face.

The entire lot of them were coming near to
blows now, still squabbling over who would carry Ranald. Page heard
them, and yet heard nothing at all. Sweet Mary, but they were
fickle souls, these Scots. Well, let them kill themselves over the
dubious honor. She no longer had intentions of carrying poor damned
Ranald! Poor damned Ranald could carry himself for all she cared!
She had half an inclination to go find the nearest rock and sit
down upon it until she withered away.

chapter 22

Iain had to restrain himself from going
after her.

Keeping him from it was the knowledge that
any words he might think to utter would be wholly inadequate to
ease the incredible sorrow he saw reflected there in her eyes.

His gaze was drawn downward to the crumpled
crocus blossom she had discarded. It was beaten beyond repair, its
petals folded and distorted, but the fact that she had kept the
memento told him it was somehow important to her, and just as he
had felt compelled to pluck the blossom in the first place, he felt
bound now to retrieve it to save for her. He bent, lifting it as
gingerly as his big, unwieldy hands could manage, and then placed
it within the folds of his breacan.

“
I really like her, da,”
his son said in a whisper, appearing suddenly at his
side.

Iain glanced down at the smaller, begrimed
image of himself and smiled. “Me too,” he said, and patted a hand
over the crown of Malcom’s head.

“
But she has a mean da,”
Malcom proclaimed. “I didna like him!”

Iain’s gaze returned to Page. “Aye, son,
that she does.” He stared pensively, thinking of her bastard da,
only half listening to his son. “I didna like him either.”

“
He howled like a banshee
and was verra mean!”

Iain’s gaze snapped down to his son. “To
you?”

Malcom shook his head, and his little brows
drew together into a frown. “Nay... to her. I was gain’ to beat him
up!” he revealed with no small measure of pride.

Iain chuckled and ruffled his son’s hair.
“Were ye now?” He didn’t see any reason to point out the unlikely
outcome of such a venture. “And what stopped ye, Malcom?”