The MacKinnon's Bride (3 page)

Like the legendary phoenix rising up from its ashes,
she stood to face him, her hands clenching at her sides.

“
Have you no breeding?” she
returned scathingly.
“Scot!”
She hurled the epithet at him
with an imperious lift of her brows, and despite his anger, it was
all Iain could do not to laugh outright at the unexpected
insolence. “What concern is it of yours where I should
bathe?”

Iain was incredulous at her brazenness, her
foolhardiness. Were he any other man... Christ! Could she truly not
know her folly? His gaze raked her from her wet, plaited head, down
her long graceful limbs, wholly exposed by her wet gown, and on to
her bare toes before returning to her face, carefully avoiding
those delightfully tempting breasts, as he added, “You’ve an
insolent tongue, wench. Need I remind—”

“
Aye, well you shall have no
tongue at all when my father hears of this!” she returned
boldly.

Although she had to overcome the urge to take a wary
step backward, Page held her ground and drew herself up to her full
height. For an instant he seemed bemused by her reply, and then he
arched a brow.

Challenging her?

“
Truly?” he asked, and his smile
turned cold.

Page shuddered at the bold way he appraised her once
more. No man had ever dared look at her so—with such undisguised
lust. It sent a jolt of alarm racing through her. And to her
dismay, the tiniest thrill

Another quiver shook her.

Mayhap she’d lost her wits when she’d collided with
his monolith of a friend?

She cast a glance at the others and found them all
staring, mouths agape. Page hoped their idiocy wasn’t contagious.
They were half-wits! Every last one of them!

“
Catching glowworms perchance?”
she asked.

A ridiculous sight, the lot of them; their brows
drew together in unison and they cast surprised glances at each
other, then snapped their mouths shut.

“
Bones o’ the bluidy saints,
wench! ‘Tis no wonder your da lets you aboot in the middle o’ the
night,” the leader said. “He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your
way home in the dark.”

Page’s heart wrenched at the barb. It stung like the
rude crack of a palm across her face. She swallowed her pride and
blinked away angry tears, determined not to betray her emotions to
these heartless barbarians. He couldn’t possibly know how near to
the mark he’d struck, or how much the truth hurt.

Nor would he care, she was certain.

Her eyes burned. “My father shall have you all
beheaded for this insult to me!” she swore, and couldn’t help but
note that his gaze roamed her body once more—this time more slowly
and with a turn of his lips that both infuriated and appalled
her.

Confused her.

Another frisson raced down her spine.

Forsooth, but the man had a mouth more exquisite
than any man had a right to own! She blinked.

What the devil was wrong with her? How could she
stand here contemplating lips, when her very life might well be at
stake? Her honor at the very least!

Why, then, didn’t she feel more afeared?

By all accounts she should be. Everything about the
man bespoke danger—everything from his barbarously unclad legs to
his fierce expression proclaimed him a savage Scot. If she’d
thought his brutish friend tall, this one was immense, towering
above them all.

And yet... something about him seemed harmless …
vaguely familiar, too.

Page narrowed her gaze, studying the shadowed
contours of his face. She couldn’t know him. Could she?

It was dark. Mayhap her mind was deceiving her. Then
again, mayhap she was completely addle-pated from the injury to her
head. Certainly she was mad to even wonder whether those lips were
so beautiful in the bold light of day.

“
Who are you?” she demanded,
crossing her arms over her breasts, feeling wholly exposed to him
suddenly, despite the shift she wore and the veil of darkness
surrounding them.

He said naught, merely stood, staring, with that
infuriating turn of his lips, and Page asserted, “Have you no
tongue, Scot?”

For the space of an instant he seemed taken aback by
the question, stunned even, and then he surprised her with the rich
timbre of his laughter.

His men didn’t seem quite so amused. And bless the
saints, Page didn’t know why he should be either. Her father would
have slapped her face by now. Never would she have been so brazen
with him!

“‘
Tis the MacKinnon you’re
speaking to,” growled one of his lickspittles. “Ye’ll be watchin’
your tongue, wench, lest you lose it!”

“
MacKinnon!”

Startled, Page took a step backward—less in response
to his warning than her shock. Her fear was at once forgotten in
her indignation.

’
Twas not simply
any
savage
Scot who stood before her, but
the
savage Scot!

It was his child her father had granted safe harbor
to as a favor to David of Scotland. The boy was to become a ward of
the English court. Page had spent enough time with the youngster to
know he’d been ill used. How dare this beast deal with his son so
cruelly that his own king should be forced to intervene to
safeguard him! Poor wretched child! ’Twas no wonder the cur seemed
so familiar! Father and son shared the same look—albeit one morphed
by age.

This face was hard and ruthless, despite the
laughter that softened those exquisite lips. And ruthless was
precisely what he was! Rumor had it, even, that he’d murdered his
poor young wife after she’d borne him a son. “Blackguard!” she
spat. “How dare you show your face here!”

He arched a brow at her. “I came for my son, wench.
Did you think I would not?”

Came for his son, indeed!

Page was so infuriated that she thought she would
box his ears. She couldn’t care less about the consequences, so
angry was she.

“
Aye, well, you’ll be leaving
without him!” she returned. “My father will never release him to
you!” Whatever else he might be, her father was no imbecile. Mayhap
he held no tenderness for the boy, but he would never dare risk
Henry’s wrath by returning the wretched child to his vile father.
“Jesu, have you not done enough to harm him already?”

The MacKinnon stiffened at her accusation.

Good! Let him feel guilt! If he had a heart within
that overgrown chest! “Aye, disabuse yourself of the notion he’ll
be returning to Scotia with you, for your son is to be protected by
King Henry himself!” she persisted, when his eyes betrayed alarm.
“Tomorrow he will be out of your hands and safe from you
evermore!”

The muscles in his jaw clenched, and he seemed
momentarily unable to speak.

Page hoped he was feeling regret. Jesu, but the poor
boy had come to them beaten and mute, fearful of even meeting her
gaze. No matter that she’d tried to draw him out, he kept his
silence still. “What have you done to that poor child that he fears
even to speak? You should be deeply ashamed of yourself, sir!”

He found his tongue suddenly, and Page winced at the
thunder in his tone.

“
What d’ ye mean Malcom willna
speak?” He advanced upon her, his look darkening, his arms falling
away to his sides, fists clenching.

Page stumbled backward at his murderous expression,
the obvious threat in his stance. “Y-you sh-should know,” she
stammered. She took another prudent step backward.

He continued to advance upon her, demanding, “What
have you done to my son?”

Page gasped and took another leap backward, her hand
flying to her breast. “Me? You! What have
you
done to him!”
What gall that he should cast the blame for his son’s affliction at
her own feet! “He came to us just so!”

“
What in God’s bloody name have
you done to my son!” he persisted.

The MacKinnon towered over her, glaring down
fiercely, and Page thought she might never catch another breath.
Her heart vaulted into her throat, strangling her.

He was too close!

She winced, noting his distressed expression, and
was no longer quite certain the tales told of him were all
true—leastways not those accusing him of misusing his son, for he
seemed ready to rent her to shreds at the very notion that his son
might be harmed.

The rest of the tales were quite easy to believe,
for the man standing before her appeared more than capable of
ripping the heart from any man—or a woman—with little effort.

God’s truth,
now
she was afeared!

Her heart thrashed madly against her ribs until she
thought the strain would kill her.

He spat a mouthful of indecipherable oaths, and
commanded his men, “Take her! Bind her to the stoutest tree you can
find! I mean to be certain she remains come morning light!”

They seized her by the arms.

“
Nay! My father will flay you
alive, MacKinnon!”

She shrieked in outrage when he dared to turn his
back upon her and walk away, leaving her at the mercy of his
men.

“
Brute! Oaf! He’ll gouge out your
eyes!”

He stopped abruptly and turned to assess her once
more, this time without the slightest pretense at civility.

“
He values you, then?”

Did he challenge her? Page thought her heart would
burst with misery at his question. For a moment she couldn’t speak
to answer. “Of course he values me!” She felt the burn of tears in
her eyes, but refused to shed them. Tears were for the feeble, and
she was anything but. Aye, her father had taught her well. She
lifted her chin, daring him to refute her. “I am his daughter, am I
not?”

He didn’t respond.

Sweet Jesu! Did he know? Could he possibly know? Was
he laughing at her behind those turbulent blue eyes?

Rotten knave! She knew he must be.

“
Good,” he said, and continued to
scrutinize her with narrowed eyes. “You say King Henry comes on the
morrow to take my son? Where does he plan to take him?”

Page straightened to her full height, her lips
curving with a smugness she ‘didn’t quite feel. “Aye, he comes,
blackguard! And when he does, he’ll—”

“
What?”

Her heart twisted. What, indeed, would he do?
Naught, she determined, for she knew Henry not at all and she
doubted he would trouble himself for her benefit if her father did
not value her. And her father did not. She swallowed the knot that
rose in her throat and tried to wrench free of her captors. To no
avail.

“
Where does he think to take my
son, wench?”

“
My father will tear out your
bloody hearts and I will stand by and watch and laugh!”

Unaffected, he advanced upon her, demanding,
“Where?”

Page loathed herself for cowing to him in that
instant. “I-I don’t know!”

His gaze scrutinized her through the night shadows.
Recognizing the lie?

“
For truth?”

Her voice sounded much too feeble to her own ears.
“Aye.”

“
No matter,” he yielded. “Henry
will never set eyes upon my boy. Silence her now, Lagan! I dinna
wish to hear another bluidy word come out o’ her Sassenach
mouth!”

chapter
3

Never in the whole of his life had Iain met
a wench so troublesome—or so impertinent! He was mightily glad to
know her father would deal with him come morning, because he
couldn’t wait to be rid of her!

The sooner the better.

And yet, much as he wished to summon
FitzSimon from his bed at this hour, to ransom Malcom this very
instant, if the wench spoke true, and King Henry arrived on the
morrow, then that was one more advantage he could press if the need
arose.

He’d never been one to
waste opportunity.
’
Twas said that,
forsaking comfort, and in favor of celerity, the English king oft
rode with a minimum retinue. Iain was counting on it. He had nigh
forty men at his command—more than most traveled with at best—more
than enough to give FitzSimon pause.

Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.

In the meantime, he was going to have to
keep the mouthy wench bound and gagged, lest she drive his men to
murder.

Or him to worse.

Of all the impudent, foolhardy... plucky
females.

She’d actually defended his son! Against
him! The notion was ludicrous, and yet...

She’d said Malcom would not speak.

Iain tried to consider the
news rationally—for Malcom’s sake.
’
Twould
serve no purpose at all to be losin’ his wits now when he needed
them most.

The fact that FitzSimon’s shrewish daughter
thought him responsible for Malcom’s ills led him to believe that
she, in truth, had had no part in his affliction.

Else she protected her da...

Though after the manner in
which she spoke of him, Iain doubted she thought he needed
protecting. She made her bastard da out to be some venerable
champion! To hear her speak, she bore little fear of Iain’s
reprisal against him. On the contrary, she expected her da
to
flay him alive
. He shook his head with wonder over the callowness of her
words.

’
Twas like to be the
simple fact that Malcom was frightened that kept his tongue
stilled. His son liked to think of himself as a man, but he was yet
a child, with a child’s heart.

Christ, but when he discovered the
traitor...

His jaw clenched.

It had to have been someone from within
their clan, for the bastard had left no witnesses, nor evidence, to
betray himself. He’d simply come, like the proverbial thief in the
night, stolen Malcom, and then had fled, leaving no one the
wiser.