The MacKinnon's Bride (28 page)

Every man present shook his head, denying
responsibility.

“
I didna do it,” Dougal
muttered, shaking his head adamantly.

“
Nor I,” muttered
another.

“
Or me,” came the
echo.

“
Weel,” Iain answered, “ye
can bluidy damned well pass it on, anyhoo.”

“
The whoreson knows who he
is,” Angus agreed somberly. “And I’d wager he dinna have in mind
for that tumble down the mount to be poor Ranald’s
either.”

“
That he does,” Iain
granted. “And nay... that tumble down the hillside was meant to put
more than scrapes on a bluidy corpse. Mayhap
’twas meant for her...” He cast a nod in Page’s direction.
“And mayhap ‘twas meant for my son.” His jaw went taut. His hands
clenched at his sides. “Either way... may God forgive his cauld
heart, because I mean to carve it from his verra body with my own
hands and feed it to the raving wolves! Tell him that for me, will
ye now,” Iain charged them, and left them to mull over his
counsel.

chapter 23

The MacKinnon was in a foul mood.

Page didn’t need to hear the whispered
warnings to know she should endeavor to stay out of his way. She’d
learned her lessons well in her father’s home. She wasn’t precisely
certain what it was that had turned his mood so foul, but she knew
it had something to do with the discourse he’d shared with his men
earlier in the day. She’d known by the way he’d stood talking with
them, and then by the way he’d pivoted and left them. The scowl
upon his face had been daunting enough to make her cower where
she’d sat upon her little stone.

Without a word he’d saddled her mount with
his own harness and trappings, and then had decreed she would ride
with Malcom. And then without a word he’d ridden beside them,
making only an occasional swoop over his cavalcade, speaking
sharply to those he stopped to address.

Only Malcom seemed unaffected by his mood,
and Page thought it either very foolish, or very telling. She was
beginning to believe the latter, as she’d never heard Iain speak a
single unkind word to his son, but she was beyond the point of
feeling envious over that fact. On the contrary, she was glad for
Malcom. He was a bright child, with a wit almost as sharp as his
father’s. And no child deserved ill treatment—not from anyone.

She and Malcom whiled away the hours talking
about everything. He told her of his home, Chreagach Mhor—that the
stone walls of his father’s donjon had been built long before the
first MacKinnon had set foot upon God’s earth. He told her all
about his da, about things she wasn’t certain Iain would wish her
to know—that his da sometimes had nightmares, and that he called
out his mother’s name.

Mairi.

Of all names to choose, it was the first
false name she’d given him, she realized. He’d fallen silent. She
wondered if he found her lacking compared to his wife.

Likely so.

He plainly loved her still.

The fact bothered Page more than it should
have. God’s truth, she didn’t understand it, but somehow, knowing
that Iain could never have harmed his wife, she’d rather have
thought he might than to think he yet loved her, and dreamt of her
so oft. She didn’t understand it, didn’t even try to, for it seemed
a ludicrous notion, and she rather thought that if he were capable
of such a horror as murdering a wife, she couldn’t even like him.
Tangled emotions. Even more tangled thoughts.

The only one thing that she did know was
that, like it or nay, she would have to make the best of this
situation God had cast her within. Her father wasn’t coming after
her. She could stop peering over her shoulder now, and dropping
scraps of cloth for him to follow. She could stop hoping, and start
living as best she could.

But God have mercy upon her soul, she
refused to stop loathing him. Somehow, with the knowledge that he
had so easily and so completely repudiated her—to strangers!—she
found that every last shred of kindly emotion she’d once harbored
for him fled. And in truth, it had never been easy to love him, she
acknowledged. She had loved him only because she’d felt she must.
Because he was the only kin she’d ever known. Well, no more! The
knowledge had freed her of whatever obligatory love she’d once had
for him.

For better or for worse, these were to be
her people now.

Sitting there alone upon that stone, she’d
felt so far removed from everything and everyone she’d ever
known.

And then Malcom had come to speak with her,
and he’d brightened her heart with his smiles and his words. This
dirty little Scots boy, with the green eyes, golden hair, and a
face that was an almost perfect replica of his father’s.

Aye, these were her people now, she
resolved.

Mayhap she would never have chosen them—nor
they her—but God had seen fit to cast them together, and she was
determined to feel grateful, despite the anger and hurt she felt.
And she was even more determined to earn her keep, however
possible.

They continued the northward ride mostly in
silence, but for Malcom’s occasional familiar illumination. When
the winds lifted, Malcom turned and buried his little face against
her bosom, and she sheltered him as best she could, singing to him
to pass the time. Amazing, she’d never thought a body could
withstand such frigid temperatures, though while Malcom seemed
ready enough to snuggle against her, she was the only one left
shivering.

Mayhap it was the emptiness within her that
made her feel so chilled. Absurdly, the thought that Iain MacKinnon
pitied her made her feel more depleted even than her father’s
betrayal.

Foolish girl, she berated herself.

How could you have possibly believed he
could love you?

She hadn’t expected love, she told herself,
and hadn’t gotten it. So why should she feel so disheartened?

God’s truth, she didn’t know, but she
did.

The weather became more insane the farther
north they traveled.

They awakened the next morning to a fine,
cold mist that no sooner settled upon the flesh than it began
seeping down into the bones. And still she was the only one
shivering. These Scotsmen surrounding her seemed wholly immune to
the savage weather they faced.

It seemed remarkable to Page that it could
be so cold when the sun shone brightly down upon them. But it was.
And it was a cold that benumbed the flesh and paralyzed the body.
They gained an early start, covering more ground than it seemed
conceivable for the horses to cover, when her own fragile bones
seemed frozen and incapable of motion.

When it ceased to rain at last she had no
chance to rejoice in the fact, for within mere instants of the
rain’s departure came the snow. Stunned, she put out her hand to be
certain she wasn’t imagining it, and was stupefied to find white
feathery flakes alighting upon her sun-pinkened flesh—such fine
flakes, they melted upon contact, but flakes, they were.

And Jesu, it was in that moment, as she
scrutinized the MacKinnon men, that she realized what remarkable
fortitudes they each possessed. Not a one of them complained even
the least, though more than half wore not even shoes. Bare legged
and bare of feet, with only their breacans to buffer them from the
piercing wind and cold, they rode with their spines rigid and their
heads held high and proud.

Not Page. She, on the other hand, while she
dared not voice her discomfort, was huddled over Malcom, trying
desperately to warm her body. Her feet were bare as well, but she
did not endure it so nobly. Her distress must have been evident,
for Iain removed his breacan and approached her, throwing the thick
woolen blanket as a mantle over her shoulders. She was loath to
take his charity, but didn’t dare refuse it. As it was, were it not
for Malcom’s little body seated before her, she thought she would
have perished long before now. Sweet Jesu! Whatever the rain left
untouched, the chill wind permeated.

Broc, too, came and offered his blanket,
unsettling Page, and making her eyes burn with tears. She tried to
refuse him, but he held his hand out resolutely.

“
For the lad,” he said
low, nodding and urging her to take it.

Swallowing her pride, for Malcom lay
sleeping against her bosom with nary a single shiver—she knew the
gesture was for her—she accepted the blanket, her eyes stinging
horribly.

Broc remained at her side a moment longer,
making idle talk about his dog, Merry Bells, and reminding her
belatedly of his unfortunate affliction. She stared down at the
blanket she’d placed over Malcom and herself, and endeavored to
hide her grimace of disgust. She fought the urge to fling the
blanket back at the fair-faced behemoth, but was reluctant to
offend him. Poor child would likely end up with fleas—and herself,
as well. She cast a glance at Broc to find him scratching his head,
and determined to help rid him once and for all of his
infestation.

Broc remained by her side, regaling her with
tales of the world’s most clever dog, until Iain returned to ride
beside her. A single glance from his laird sent Broc on his way.
And then once again Page rode in silence, for Iain didn’t deign to
speak to her.

He wouldn’t even look at her.

Though she knew it was ludicrous, she was
still angry with him—couldn’t help herself. In withholding the
truth, he had, after all, merely had the audacity to consider her
feelings. She should have been grateful, but somehow couldn’t
gather the sentiment. She wanted to cut out his tongue for lying to
her—for keeping the truth from her. It was the same as a lie,
wasn’t it? She wanted to slap his mouth for daring to kiss her—for
having the gall to make her feel cherished, when she dared not feel
anything at all.

Sweet Jesu, but more than aught else, she
wanted to fling herself into his arms and weep until the last tear
was shed. She wanted him to hold her, kiss her, love her. She
wanted to forget herself within his arms, let him carry her again
to that sweet place where only the body mattered, the heart did
not—and she wanted to stay there for all of eternity, never to
return.

She wanted to force him to acknowledge her,
to look at her again as he had—not with that piteous expression
that made her heart ache and made her want to gouge out his
eyes.

As ever, it seemed, she wanted too much, for
Iain MacKinnon continued to ride beside her deep in silence,
casting her only the occasional brooding glance.

He was running out of time.

It wouldn’t be long now before Iain began to
unravel the tangled thread of clues.

And where would that leave him? With nothing
once again—damned if he’d allow it to happen!

Nay, he’d have to accelerate his plans, make
the most of every opportunity. Bluidy troublesome wench had managed
to set them all to rights without even lifting her voice in
censure. Christ, but she’d had them all scurrying with shame o’er
the honor of carrying Ranald’s stinkin’ body.

He hadn’t offered, and he wondered now if
Iain had noticed. He cast a furtive glance at the laird of the
MacKinnons, and found him brooding still, his expression black as
his da’s heart had been. He hadn’t said much since Ranald’s tumble.
Not to anyone—not even to his Sassenach whore, though he watched
her every second he thought she would not spy him at his lovelorn
glances.

For her part, she sat there, her expressions
too easy to read: a mixture of longing, fury, and pain. Aye, well,
he’d put the bitch out of her misery afore long.

God, but merely the thought of it brought an
anticipatory smile to his lips.

chapter 24

Soaring upon a gently sloping, heathered
hill, Chreagach Mhor seemed an enchanted place. Not even Malcom’s
tales, pride filled though they were, could have prepared her for
the rustic, fantastical beauty of the stone sentinel upon the
hilltop. The very sight of it stole Page’s breath away.

As cool as the weather remained high in
these hills, the heather bloomed a brilliant violet against a vivid
carpet of green. Scattered across the lush landscape, rugged stones
stood like proud sentries to guard the mammoth tower. Small
thatch-roofed buildings spattered the hillside. The rounded donjon
itself was like no other donjon Page had ever set eyes upon. The
structure rose against the twilight sky, a sleek, tapering grayish
silhouette against the darkening horizon.

Page held her breath as they climbed the
hill toward it, her expression one of awe. It was a dream vision of
incomparable beauty, nothing at all like the ugly stone fortress
that was Balfour.

Built solely for defense, Balfour was a
monstrosity, a scabrous creation that sullied the beauty of the
English meadow upon which it was seated.

This place, this rugged fortress settled
high upon a violet mantle, with its single visible high window, was
like a majestic suzerain reigning over the landscape.

As she watched in awe, kith and kin appeared
from the thatch-roofed dwellings, and gathered anxiously along the
single worn path that led to the donjon itself. With craned necks
and murmured voices they awaited the cavalcade.

Malcom’s animated voice and Iain’s ensuing
laughter drew Page’s attention to father and son riding beside her.
His brooding countenance vanished, replaced with an expression of
supreme pleasure. Father and son seemed to forget her in their
moment of homecoming. Page didn’t care. Their joy was
infectious.

Understanding what it was his people sought
to know, Iain suddenly lifted his son from before him upon the
saddle and seated him high upon his shoulders. Arms flailing,
Malcom shouted to his kinfolk, a gleeful Gaelic greeting, and Page
found herself smiling over his exuberant display.