The MacKinnon's Bride (4 page)

She had defended his son.

Iain shook his head in wonder. He didn’t
know whether to kiss her soundly for her unbiased defense of
Malcom, or to strangle her where she stood.

God’s teeth, she was a sharp-tongued wench
with a mouth the likes o’ which he’d never known a woman to possess
in his lifetime. He grinned then, despite himself, because he
couldn’t believe she’d been so barefaced.

Catching glowworms, indeed.

He chuckled. The looks upon his men’s faces
had been worth a king’s ransom.

Aye, he was going to have to remain close to
the wench, he resolved—but first things first. Right now he
intended to retrieve her garments from the riverbank where she’d
likely left them—he had to believe she had worn more clothes than
those she bore upon her back just now. The last thing he needed was
a bloody distraction.

God’s teeth! He couldn’t think straight
while staring at those luscious breasts of hers. And damnation! Who
could help but stare when she stood all but naked before him!

Which brought him to wonder yet again...
what sort of man allowed his only daughter to roam the countryside
free and naked as Eve?

Och, but there were daughters who were
governable, and daughters who were not, he reasoned.

Had she been his wayward daughter, Iain
might have locked her safely within a tower until the day she
pledged her vows!

Impertinent, sour-mouthed wench!

While the rotten lot of them lay snoring
upon their backs, Page sat, shivering with her back against a tree,
arms twisted and bound behind her and a sour-tasting rag wedged
within her mouth.

Loathsome Scots!

Not that she could have slept anyway, for
she was much too miserable with worry and regret. Forsooth, she
should never have come out alone. Why couldn’t she be content to
simply sit within the solar and sew like other ladies?

Why couldn’t she be what her father wished
of her?

Then again, she reflected somewhat bitterly,
the answer to that question might better be known if only she knew
what her father wished of her.

The truth was that Page couldn’t please
him—never had been able to please him. And what was worse, she
wasn’t certain she wished to try anymore.

She might not have to after tonight.

The thought sent a shudder through her.

What would they do to her once they
discovered her father didn’t want her? The truth was that her
father would no more give up the boy than he would spit in the
king’s eye—not for her, he wouldn’t.

Well, she told herself, she didn’t care.

She truly didn’t.

But her eyes stung with hot, angry
tears.

Well, she’d soon enough discover what they
would do … if she didn’t manage an escape … so she set her wiles to
that end. Trying not to deliberate on the dire possibilities should
she fail, she regarded her captors.

To her dismay, the original four had not
come alone as she’d first suspected. Worse, she couldn’t precisely
make out how many there were, for their limbs and bodies merged
together in the darkness—like cadavers huddled together in a common
grave.

There were a lot of them, she surmised.

They’d dragged her shrieking like a fishwife
into their camp, and the lascivious looks she’d gotten from the lot
of them had made her resolve never to look at a man full in the
face again.

Overweening boors!

The MacKinnon in particular!

She shuddered, remembering the way he’d
looked at her, the knowing look in his eyes.

Unreasonably, she found herself wondering
what color his eyes were. Blue? Green? She hadn’t been able to make
them out in the darkness, but she was certain they wouldn’t be so
common as hers. Alas, but there was naught ordinary about the
infuriating man.

He had yet to return.

Not that she cared one
whit whether she ever saw his too comely face again, she assured
herself, but—well, damnation, mayhap she did, and frowned at the
admission, her brow furrowing as she contemplated that fact.
’
Twas only natural, she reasoned, that she
wouldn’t wish to be left alone with these men of his. She didn’t
trust them.

But had she anymore cause to trust the
MacKinnon? a little voice nagged.

It wasn’t precisely that she trusted him.
Just that she didn’t mistrust him quite so much—although why she
should feel even thus toward him, she couldn’t begin to comprehend.
He was likely no better than the rest.

Soon after she’d been bound to the tree, he
and the one called Lagan had departed camp. She imagined they were
scouting Balfour’s defenses as a precaution.

Good for them, because her father was going
to tell them to go to Hell, she was aggrieved to admit. It mattered
not what she’d said, or what she secretly hoped, she wouldn’t
delude herself into thinking otherwise. They were stuck with her,
didn’t they know.

If she didn’t freeze to death first.

Or if she didn’t manage to escape.

She heard their voices long before she spied
them and her stomach lurched as they came from the woods. The
MacKinnon and the one called Lagan—the boor who had shoved the
despicable rag into her mouth. They stood whispering beside the
fire. Something else she could thank them for—setting her so far
from the fire’s heat, as wet as she was, and leaving her to freeze
in the chill night air! Thoughtless, infuriating barbaric
wretches!

The firelight flickered between them,
casting its copper tint against their bodies and faces, distorting
their images. Caught between the eerie glow of the flame and the
obscurity of shadow, the MacKinnon cut a daunting figure, to be
sure. Dressed in a black woolen tunic and cloaked in his belted
breacan, he stood at least six inches taller than her father in his
thick leather-lined boots. In a leonine display of masculinity, his
dark wavy mane was unbound and fell below his shoulders, and his
stance was one bred of confidence. He was a man born to lead, she
couldn’t help but cede.

Was he a murderer, as well?

The prospect made her throat tighten with
renewed fear.

Her heart lurched. What would he do when he
discovered her father wouldn’t deal with him?

She couldn’t even begin to make out their
discourse, and then the one called Lagan left the MacKinnon’s side
to jostle another man awake.

He whispered something into the man’s ear
and the man rose at once, shaking off his slumber. Together the two
spoke to the MacKinnon and then stumbled off into the shadowy realm
beyond the fire’s brightness.

Only Page and the MacKinnon remained still
awake.

Starting at the realization, Page turned to
look at him and gasped to find him simply standing there, watching
her, the firelight playing upon his face, making his harsh features
appear all the harsher for the contrasting shadows. She prayed he
couldn’t see her where she sat so far from the light, and was
relieved when he turned and bent to retrieve something that lay
beside the fire. Her relief was short-lived, however, for he
pivoted suddenly and came toward her, and a shock of pure hysteria
skittered through her.

Reacting instinctively, Page slammed her
head backward against the tree trunk and swore a silent oath,
closing her eyes, feigning sleep. Jesu, but she was being foolish!
She knew it, and still couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t face him
just now. She didn’t know why, she just couldn’t. Tears sprang to
her eyes.

He values you?
the ghost of his voice whispered in her ear, and
the question tormented her. She had to remind herself he’d not
spoken it aloud.
’
Twas merely her
imagination mocking her, making her the fool.

His footfall was light, but Page could make
out the soft sound of moss surrendering beneath his leather-soled
feet and knew the moment when he stood before her.

Bare limbed.

The thought accosted her from nowhere, and
her heart gave a little start, beating faster as he crouched down
beside her—at least she imagined he crouched. She could swear that
he did, for she thought she felt the heat of his breath against her
cheek.

A sigh blew across her face.

Or had she imagined it?

Merciful Lord, was he watching her so
intently?

Nay... oh, nay...

Her heart began to flounder, and she tried
not to panic, tried to pretend he wasn’t hovering so close,
scrutinizing her every breath, but failed miserably. She knew that
he was, and was only grateful for the veil of darkness to conceal
her when she felt the telltale flush creep up from her breast, to
her throat and face, warming her.

And then suddenly her heart slammed to a
halt, for he touched her—sweet Mary, the way that he touched
her.

Her breath left her, and her body quivered
as his hand cupped her face, the gesture so much a tender caress.
She leaned her face hungrily into the warmth of his palm, and then
realized what she’d done, and her eyes flew wide. She drew in a
breath, and lifted her face to his.

Their gazes met, held, locked.

He didn’t remove his hand, and Page, though
startled by the embrace, could scarce protest with the rag still
filling her mouth. Scarce could she breathe. Scarce could she
think.

With a gentleness that belied his strength
and size, he brushed his thumb across the hollow above her cheek,
and Page closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears anew.

How inconceivable it was that this man, this
stranger, her captor, would be the very first to touch her so
gently?

“
Dinna be weepin’,” he
whispered.

Was she? Page nearly choked on her denial.
She hadn’t even realized.

He removed the gag from her mouth and
brought it to his nostrils. They flared at the stench and he
glowered, tossing it away. She swallowed with difficulty. “Damn
Lagan,” he grumbled, and shook his head in disgust.

Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, but
it wouldn’t have mattered, she wouldn’t have known what to say.

So near, his face lost none of its masculine
beauty.

It held her mesmerized.

He seemed so young to lead, she thought,
despite that his hair proclaimed elsewise; dark as it was, the
shock of white at his temples stood out distinctly against the
black of his hair. It was braided, she noticed for the first
time—the silver at his temples. How old was he? His youthful face
declared six and twenty, no more, but his hair bespoke some two
score years and more. His cheekbones were high, his nose perfectly
aquiline, and his lips... his lips were the sort to make a woman
fancy stolen kisses. And his eyes... she still couldn’t make out
their color in the darkness, though she tried.

Her heart beat a steady rhythm in her
ears.

“
Ye’ve my word, lass, that
ye’ll no’ be harmed.” His voice was low and husky. “Dinna look so
woeful.”

He stroked her cheek, and confusion flooded
her. Why was he being so gentle? Jesu, but she didn’t know how to
deal with this!

Page jerked her face away from his touch.
“I—I was not!”

He arched a brow. “Weeping?”

He lifted his hand abruptly and Page
flinched, thinking he meant to strike her for the denial, but he
brought his thumb to his lips, instead, sinking his teeth there.
Watching her, he sucked the salt of her tears from his flesh. “Were
ye no’, lass?”

A shiver coursed through her at his
gesture—the way that he addressed her—the way he continued to
stare. She tried to ignore the heat that suffused her under his
scrutiny, taking refuge in her anger. “No. I was not!”

“
Nay,” he agreed, still
suckling at his thumb. “Of course not. You’re much too... fearless.
Are ye no’?”

He suckled his thumb an instant longer, then
withdrew it from his mouth, and Page lapped at her lips gone
suddenly dry. She swallowed convulsively.

“
Still... ye’ve my word...
ye’ll no’ be harmed.”

Page closed her eyes, trying to blot out the
image of him kneeling before her. “How gracious,” she drawled,
concealing a quiver. She opened her eyes once more, narrowing them,
and her voice was steadier with anger. “In the meantime, my hands
are bruising at my back!”

His lips hinted at a smile—the rogue—a smile
that snatched her breath away and made her heart flitter wildly.
Jesu, it should have made her yearn to slap his face instead! God
curse him for that! And her, too, for allowing herself to lose her
composure over a comely face!

Her wits were addled for certain!

“
Some things are
necessary,” he told her without the slightest trace of remorse,
“but verra well, I’ll grant ye a moment’s respite.” He fell back
upon his rump and reached behind her to free her hands.

“
How generous... for a
heathen Scot!”

He merely chuckled at that, and it
multiplied her confusion tenfold. What was wrong with the fool? Did
he not realize he was supposed to be angered by her quips? Page
wasn’t certain what to make of him—less so by the instant.

He released her hands, and then slipped his
fingers across the small of her back. She squealed in alarm,
arching away from his touch. “What!” she shrieked, “do you think
you are doing?”

He didn’t bother to beg her pardon, nor to
remove his hand. It burned her flesh even through her shift.

“
You’re wet,” he
announced.

“
Am I really?” She
recovered her composure and glared at him vengefully. “How
peculiar! I wonder if ‘tis because you abducted me wet from my
swim... refused to allow me to dry... and then thrust me away in a
damp corner far from the heat of the fire.”

She tried to shrug away from his touch, to
no avail. “Remove your hand from my person this instant!”