The MacKinnon's Bride (27 page)

His brows lifted and he nodded. “I was verra
scared,” he confessed.

Iain’s grin widened at his son’s innate
honesty.

And then his little brows drew together once
more. “Da,” he ventured. “Were ye afeared o’ her da, too?”

Iain came to his haunches to face his son,
sensing his question was not one to be taken lightly. In it he
heard all the confusion of childhood—the irresolutions carried into
manhood. It was an echo of his own childhood—the self-doubt never
voiced for fear that his da would disparage him for it. He placed
his hand to his son’s shoulder and confessed, “Verra much, Malcom.”
Certainly not in the sense his son was speaking of, but he had been
terrified unto death for Malcom’s sake. In truth, he’d been too
damned furious, too afeared for Malcom’s safety to consider his
own. Nor, he was ashamed to concede, did he consider the safety of
his men. Nonetheless, Malcom was too young to understand the
difference between the two, and Iain sensed his son needed to know
his fear was only natural. He placed a hand to his son’s shoulder.
“In truth, I was verra scared,” he confided in a whisper.

Malcom nodded, and returned the embrace,
placing his little hand upon Iain’s shoulder. “Dinna worry, da,” he
said. “I willna tell, all right?”

Iain smiled.

Malcom returned the smile and drew himself
up to his full height, straightening his back. His gaze slid to
Page and then back to his da, and then he said, patting Iain’s
shoulder, “She’s a right bonny lass, Da. Dinna ye think so?”

Iain choked on a chuckle. He managed a sober
nod. “Aye, son, I do.”

Malcom nodded, as well. “And she sings verra
pretty, too.”

Iain’s gaze was drawn to where she sat upon
a small stone. “That she does,” he agreed. “That she does.” He
stood, staring pensively.

“
So d’ ye think we can
keep her?” Malcom ventured.

Iain found himself grinning down at his son,
and soon to be coconspirator. “D’ ye wish to keep her, Malcom?”

“
Aye, da!” Malcom answered
at once. “Sometimes...” he imparted, “dinna tell anybody, now... I
wish for a mammy to sing me to sleep.”

Iain’s heart squeezed a little at his son’s
admission. There was no need to stretch the truth this time as he
confessed, “I used to wish for the same, Malcom, when I was your
age.”

“
Did ye truly,
da?”

“
Aye.” More often than he
could ever count, he had wished for that very thing. Mayhap,
even,
’twas why he heard the echo in his
mind of a voice that could never have existed. His mother’s voice.
A haunting lilt that tugged at his heart and plagued his very
soul.

“
Guid, then. Let us both
woo her together. You work on her heart,” he charged his
son.

“
And what part o’ her will
you work to woo?” Malcom asked innocently. “Her brain, da? Will ye
work to woo her brain?”

Again Iain’s gaze was drawn to her. She sat,
hugging a knee to her breast. The other leg stretched out, long,
lean, and luscious, from beneath the tattered hem of her skirt. The
very sight of it caused his blood to simmer and stir. God, but he
could almost feel the soft, supple flesh of her calf slide beneath
the touch of his hand. He watched an instant longer, shuddering,
and then relented, turning back to his son. “Aye,” he said, his
throat thick with a longing he could not suppress. “That, too.” He
winked at his son conspiratorially.

“
Iain!” shouted
Angus.

Iain’s attention was drawn to the group of
men who had gathered about Ranald’s body.

Angus was holding the harness in his hands.
He held it up for Iain to see. “I think ye’d better take a look at
this,” he urged.

Iain nodded, and turned back to his son. He
ruffled a hand through Malcom’s hair. “Go on wi’ ye now, son, and
woo her guid, ye hear?”

Malcom beamed. “Aye, da!” he said, winking
back in an exaggerated version of his father’s wink. “I will!” And
then he turned and raced away.

Iain watched Malcom scurry to where Page
sat, knowing his son would succeed with her in ways he could never.
No one could resist that dirty, plump little face. Certainly Iain
couldn’t. Sure enough, she peered up from her melancholy thoughts
to spy him, and even as Iain watched, Malcom managed to coax a
smile from her lush lips.

Satisfied that his son’s endeavors were
going well enough, he went to see what it was that seemed to have
Angus in a stir. All eyes remained upon him as he approached. The
hairs at his nape stood at end. “What is it?”

“
Take a look for
yourself,” Angus directed.

Iain did, accepting the harness into his
hands. At first glance, he saw nothing awry. He turned the harness,
searching, and then his eyes fell upon the cleanly sliced cinch. He
stiffened, knowing instinctively what it meant. He lifted the
leather strap at once, inspecting it closer, ran a finger across
the cut edge, and his body tensed.

“
Someone cut
it.”

“
Aye,” agreed Angus.
“Someone did.”

“
But who?” Iain’s gaze
searched the lot of them.

Angus shrugged. Broc stared at the mutilated
harness, his brows drawn together into a frown. Kerwyn, Dougal, and
Kermichil shook their heads and shrugged.

Lagan held out his hand,
asking without words to see the damage. Iain handed the harness to
him, and he inspected it thoroughly. “Without doubt,
’
twas cut,” he yielded after a moment’s
deliberation. “But I saw no one among us do such a thing,” he
avowed, casting a meaningful glance in Page’s direction. “Only the
Sassenach wench was near the mounts alone,” he
proclaimed.

“’
Tis the truth,” Dougal
attested. “Only she was near the horses alone when she made her
escape.”

“
Nay,” Broc argued. “She
dinna do it. I watched her every moment, and she dinna do
it!”

Iain was too damned furious to consider
Broc’s sudden change of heart toward Page. And if the truth be
known, too damned relieved. He had no doubts over Page’s innocence,
but he was glad she had a champion aside from himself, one who’d
been present, while he had not been.

Page was certainly no genteel princess, but
she would never have stooped to this, even to gain her freedom, he
was certain. One look into her eyes while she’d defended her
bastard da, or even his own son, told him as much. If she could
defend a man who deserved to be drawn and quartered for his sins
against her, there was no way she would harm another human being.
Aye, and if she could defend a child she scarce knew, against a man
such as he was reputed to be, he knew her heart was pure.

But somebody had cut the cinch.

The question was...

Who?

And was it intended for Ranald... or someone
else?

Never had such unease and mistrust run
rampant through his clan. It seemed in the short time since
Malcom’s abduction, the glue that held them bound was beginning to
weaken. Mayhap David of Scotland would have his way, after all. He
intended that the Highlands would fall behind him, and those who
would not should fall by the wayside.

Iain refused to comply. Be damned if he was
going to stand about and watch while David handed all of Scotland
to his Sassenach minions. And be damned if he was going to allow
the English bastards to lay the yoke upon his people. He wasn’t
about to hand over his son’s birthright to be trampled upon by
English rule. The Highlands were their lands, no matter that they
were bitter and cold in the winters, or too rugged and wild in the
summers. It was their land, and by God, if Iain had any say over
the matter, it would be their land until the last MacKinnon
chieftain knelt before Heaven’s throne.

“
Aye?” Lagan challenged
Broc. “Ye watched her every moment? So, then, tell us... is that
why she was able to swim away from us and steal our goddamned
horses?”

“
One horse,” Broc argued
with a frown for Dougal, and one for Lagan.

Iain met Broc’s gaze, his own eyes narrowed
in question. Broc’s gaze skidded away, his face reddening under so
much scrutiny.

“
Answer to it, Broc,” Iain
directed. “Did you, or did you not, watch her as you
claim?”

“
Aye, laird,” Broc
confessed. “I did. I watched her every moment as I
said.”

“
Then he must be scheming
wi’ her!” Lagan declared furiously. “Why would he watch her and let
her go unless he was?”

Iain had a suspicion as to why, but he
wanted to hear it from Broc’s own lips. His gaze upon Broc was
unrelenting, and the youth seemed to sense it, for he didn’t dare
to meet Iain’s eyes. “Broc? What say you to that?”

“
I didna think ye really
wanted her, laird,” he confessed, peering up from the ground at
long last.

“
Neither did she seem to
wish to stay. And I dinna like her for the way she seemed to mock
us.” His mouth twisted into an embarrassed grimace. “I didna
believe she should come wi’ us, and I thought ye just didna hae the
heart to send her away.”

“
So ye thought to do me a
service and help her on her way?”

Broc nodded.

“
D’ ye no’ think I could
make such a decision on my own, lad?” Iain asked him.

“
Aye,” Broc
answered.

“
Christ and bedamned, what
ails the lot o’ ye?” Iain asked them angrily. “You bring to mind a
company of old maids, bickering like ye do amongst
yourselves!”

“
Somethin’s been amiss
since we came into this Sassenach land, Iain,” Angus proposed.
“First poor Ranald, now this.”

“
And I wager ‘tis all her
doin’!” Dougal asserted, casting a menacing glance in Page’s
direction.

Iain shook his head. “Something’s been amiss
since the verra beginning,” he countered. “Ye dinna remember the
reason we came into this Sassenach land to begin wi’. It wasna
reivin’ or wenchin’ that brought us here. Someone took my bluidy
son, remember?” His hands went to his hips. “Nay.” He cast a glance
in Page’s direction, and then returned it to the small group of men
standing before him.

Not all of his men were aware of the
situation: some were idling away the time, waiting for the
cavalcade to begin once again. Iain’s gaze scanned the area,
watching the small groups at their discourse and respite. “I dinna
think she had anythin’ to do wi’ Ranald’s death,” he asserted.

“
And ye dinna think
’twas her da?” Kermichil asked, his lips pursing
in deliberation.

“
Nay. We’ve no’ been
followed,” Iain answered with certainty. “I thought so at first,
but nay. I’ve no notion who got to Ranald, but
’twas no’ her da, and she dinna do it,” he assured them.
“Someone did. But Ranald, ye recall, was slain by an arrow through
the breast. Even were she skilled with the bow, she’s had no access
to such a weapon, and she was watched besides—by me!” he
interjected, lest there be any doubt. “Nay,
’
twas someone else.”

Both Broc and Angus nodded agreement.

“
What d’ye think, then,
Iain?” asked Lagan. “If ‘twas no’ her da...”

“
Then it must be
brigands!” Kerwyn interposed.

“
Or one o’ us,” Broc
suggested, though he seemed loath to put forth such a notion. His
gaze scanned the men present, waiting, it seemed, for them to point
the finger at him once more.

“
Aye, Broc,” Iain agreed,
nodding, his expression grave. “Or one o’ us...” Iain, too,
scrutinized them, taking in their sober expressions, their rigid
stances. All of them had been closely knit too long to suspect a
single one of them. Some, he’d seen their naked arses spanked by
their mammies as laddies; a few others had been there to see his
own walloped by his da. Their lives and their legacies were
intermingled and belonged to the clan MacKinnon, their heritage
handed down by the mighty sons of MacAlpin. It pained his heart to
think of any one of them as guilty.

And yet one of them was.

“
I say ‘tis Broc!” Dougal
exploded, turning and shoving the titan youth with all his
might.

Broc barely budged over the effort, and Iain
nearly laughed out loud despite the gravity of their situation.

“
You whoreson Sassenach
abettor!” Dougal snarled.

To his credit, though, Broc’s eyes reflected
his fury, he didn’t bother to return Dougal’s callow shove. He
stood, frowning down at his peer. Broc and Dougal had long shared a
friendly rivalry, one that seemed now to have become heartfelt.

“
Enough, Dougal!” Iain
reproved, his tone unyielding, lest they mistake his reasoning for
lack of intent. “Fighting amidst ourselves gains us naught,” he
told them.

Dougal, red faced over the lack of impact
he’d had upon Broc’s massive form, and Iain’s rebuke, nodded his
agreement as he stared, brooding now, at the ground before him.

“
My charge to all o’ ye is
this,” Iain told them, his eyes narrowing and alighting upon each
and every one separately. “Watch your backs, all o’ ye. Guard each
other well. Dougal and Broc,” he directed, “put your differences
aside for now.” He cast them each a foreboding glance and said, “It
seems there is a traitor amongst us.”

Each and every man nodded, looking as glum
as Iain had ever seen them. There was no denying the truth.

The evidence was indisputable.

“
A message o’ warning to
whoever that mon might be,” Iain concluded. “When I discover who ye
are... and I will unmask the bluidy whoreson... I’ll hold your
heart in my hands and watch ye greet your maker as the heartless
bastard ye are.”