The MacKinnon's Bride (6 page)

It made too little sense.

Close upon the heels of that conclusion came
her most nonsensical yet. It occurred to her, as she gazed down at
her abductor’s too comely profile, that she still hadn’t yet
determined the color of his eyes.

What would he do when her father refused to
deal with him?

A frisson passed down her spine; fear?

She refused to acknowledge it.

Her last coherent thought before she dozed
was not unlike that of a stray pup’s, she reflected somewhat
lamentably... for it occurred to her to wonder, then, if the
MacKinnon would think to keep her.

God forgive her, but the foolish notion
kindled just the tiniest spark of... something... Something so
absurdly unreasonable, she refused to give it name.

chapter 4

Though Iain forced his body to rest, his mind worked
ceaselessly through the night.

In his half-sensate state, he was wholly aware of
where he lay. He could hear the lassie’s even, steady breathing
when she dozed at last, and her fitful slumber when her dreams
disturbed her.

He understood what those soft cries bespoke, for his
own nights were too oft plagued by demons—worse since Malcom’s
abduction.

She was afeared, he realized, and guilt pricked at
him. Though she had too much pride to cower before him while awake,
in her dreams she could scarce keep herself from it.

Despite that she was his enemy’s flesh and blood,
Iain could only admire her. She’d masked her fear well, had stood
up to him like the fiercest of she-wolves. In defense of his son,
even! He only wished he didn’t have to resort to such measures that
would cause her such distress, but it couldn’t be helped.

He would do anything to ensure Malcom’s return.

He was full awake come first light, but loath to
move lest he wake her. For the longest interval, he lay, listening
to the easy rhythm of her breathing, and savoring the delicate
scent of the woman upon whom he was so intimately nestled. He
smiled, remembering the indignant tone of her voice when he’d dared
insinuate himself upon her person.

He hadn’t intended to be so bold—had only meant to
sleep beside, not atop her—but the beguiling scent and sight of her
had appealed to his baser instincts. And then, as he knelt over
her, bantering words with her, listening to her stubbornly insist
that she could fend for herself, that she didn’t need his aid, and
watching her stroke the blood back into her aching wrists, a
strange tenderness had stolen over him. She wasn’t so strong as she
appeared, he sensed, and he fully intended to hasten the
negotiations and see her safely returned to her father.

In truth, had she been any other woman, in any other
circumstance, he might have liked to know her better.

His nostrils flared as he drew the essence of her
into his lungs. His body reacted to her siren’s perfume like a man
famished and scenting Heaven’s manna.

He opened his eyes and peered up into her face,
trying to ignore the insistent burn of his loins.

She slept still, her head lolled forward. Touched by
the faint morning light, her features were soft and delicate,
hardened only by the memory of her stubborn temper. His lips curved
slightly at the image of her standing before him, fists clenched at
her sides.

Her father would pluck out his eyes, would he?

Vixen.

Her hair was the color of burnt umber. Tightly
braided at her back, it was of undeterminable length, but the curls
that fell loose about her face were long enough to sweep his
forehead. The feel of it upon his flesh hardened him fully, and he
had to restrain himself from drawing a lock into his mouth to
savor. He reached out, instead, testing a soft curl between his
fingertips.

Her lashes were long and sooty, he noted, darker
than they might have been for one whose skin was so fair.

And her lips... they were her best feature, he
decided, full and luscious... made to suckle.

His gaze shifted to her breasts. Rising and falling
with her slumber, they were her next best attribute, he resolved.
High and round and full, they were made to nourish a man’s bairn...
to whet a man’s appetite... to be suckled and loved.

Bloody hell.

Iain snapped his eyes shut, constraining his
thoughts, and shuddered. Lifting his head, he rolled free of her at
once, telling himself that he had no need to be preoccupied with
some wench’s bosom—or her mouth!

Not now.

Certainly not hers!

Careful not to wake her, he knelt beside her,
bracing his body against her so that she might lean into him, and
then he reached behind the tree to unbind her wrists. Once
liberated, she slumped sideways. He caught her, and eased her down
upon the ground to inspect her wrists for damage. He frowned as he
examined them. Though he’d taken care not to bind them too tightly,
they were chafed nevertheless. They must have pained her, and yet
she’d spoken nary a word in protest. Gently he began to massage her
wrists and hands, her fingers, and was surprised to find them
coarse to the touch, not soft as he’d imagined. His brows furrowed
as he turned them, considering their callused condition.

His gaze returned to her face to find her awake and
watching, the strangest look nestled deep within her soulful
eyes... eyes so deep a brown, they recalled him to some cool, dark
cavern. They drew him just as surely as his childhood sanctuary
had—the great stone cairn that had lured him despite his father’s
admonitions and curses—with the promise of secrets to unfold.

What secrets had she to be discovered?

She jerked her hand free and scrambled to sit,
scooting away. “Haven’t you a bargain to put forth?” she asked him,
her voice throaty from slumber. She lifted a brow. “Or have you
changed your mind already, and decided you cannot part with me,
after all?”

“
Troublesome wench,” Iain said
without much heat. He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You
just dinna quit, do ye, lass? What do you think? That I’d risk my
son for the comfort of some wench’s lap? I dinna think
so.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she answered,
hugging herself, and eyeing him disdainfully. “I forget myself, but
he’s your
son
.” And then she asked with narrowed eyes, “I
wonder, would you do the same for a daughter?”

Iain merely stared at her, his sense of unease
sharpening. “Of a certainty, lass,” he answered after a moment’s
deliberation, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I’d do the same for
any one o’ my clan. Would no’ your da?”

She lifted her chin, cocked her head, and smiled
slightly. “We shall see, shall we not?” Her smile deepened when he
frowned.

She was provoking him, he realized.

Such a contradictory creature, she was, noble born,
with mettle enough to vanquish a king’s will, and yet—his gaze
shifted to the hands she continued to stroke—those hands were more
suited to a Highland lass than to a soft English miss. She followed
his gaze, and seemed to understand his scrutiny, but she didn’t
bother to explain. He didn’t bother to ask.

She wasn’t his concern, Iain told himself.

And with that decided, he set Broc to guard her, and
anticipated Lagan’s and Ranald’s return, pacing as he waited, all
the while aware of the dagger looks FitzSimon’s daughter cast at
his back. He dismissed her for the time being, anxious for the
bargain to be put forth.

It wasn’t long before his cousin returned—without
news of Henry’s camp. It mattered not, Iain assured himself, he
wouldn’t need it. ’Twas a simple enough trade—the man’s gaddamned
daughter for his son!

So why did he have a sense of doom creeping through
his bones?

Something wasn’t right.

He gathered the men he would ride with, leaving only
Ranald to watch over FitzSimon’s daughter. The greater their
numbers, he reasoned, the better it would go for them. But he
couldn’t quite dispel the sense of unease slithering through
him.

Nor could he banish FitzSimon’s daughter from his
thoughts.

Even as he awaited FitzSimon’s emergence upon the
battlements, her expression continued to haunt him. He kept seeing
her face as he’d left her, proud but glum.

Something plagued him... something, though he could
not put a finger to it as yet.

The bastard was taking too long.

Although Iain remained mounted, some crazed part of
him paced before the barbican gates, shouting obscenities and
rattling the damnable portcullis. God, he wanted his son back! He
was desperate to have Malcom back.

And he was close—so close, and yet...

The man had been disinclined to meet face-to-face.
He would, instead, hide behind stone walls and the bows of his
men.

Nor did he appear much in a hurry to show
himself.

Not the mark of a man who held great affection for
his daughter and desired her return at any cost.

The realization lifted the hairs upon Iain’s nape,
and he found himself heartily glad for the slip of the lass’s
tongue. Though Lagan and Angus had scoured the area all night for
the English camp, to no avail, the information might still work to
his advantage—provided she’d spoken the truth and King Henry was,
in fact, due.

Finally, when FitzSimon deigned to appear, Iain
thought the man arrogant and unmoved. For one whose daughter had
strayed into enemy hands, he reacted with too little concern over
the news. Iain braced himself for the man’s dubiety, telling
himself that he might react the same without ample proof—perhaps
he’d taken so long in showing himself because he’d been searching
for his daughter within. With a wordless gesture, he demanded the
lass’s shoe from auld Angus. Angus complied at once, spurring his
mount forward to hand it over. Seizing it, Iain prepared to fling
it up into the ramparts. FitzSimon’s declaration arrested his
hand.

“
So you have her, and what?” The
older man shrugged, bracing his hands imperiously upon his hips.
“What is it you wish of me, MacKinnon?”

It took Iain a full moment to comprehend the import
of the question. Like the instant Mairi had flung herself from
their chamber window, he felt helpless and momentarily unhinged. He
could feel Malcom wrenched away suddenly, the possibility of his
return dwindling, and the sensation was almost physical. He
tempered himself, knowing his emotion would only get in the way
now. There would be time enough to feel once he held Malcom within
his embrace once more.

“
My son for your daughter,
FitzSimon!” Iain proffered, disposing with ceremony. He flung up
the shoe.

FitzSimon didn’t bother to catch it, merely eyed it
disdainfully as it fell behind the rampart wall, unclaimed at his
feet. He laughed suddenly, uproariously, his belly heaving with the
effort. “God’s breath, man! What need have I of
that brat
?”
he asked, and shook his head. “I’ve sons aplenty and the means to
forge myself more!” He smacked his belly in a gesture of
beneficence. “Take her if it please you, MacKinnon. I shall be
keeping the boy, I think. I’m not witless enough to risk Henry’s
wrath over a bothersome wench—daughter of mine though she may
be!”

Iain could scarce believe his ears. Stupefied by the
hard-hearted pronouncement, he apprised the man, “Refuse me,
FitziSimon, and your daughter willna live to see the gloamin’!”

FitzSimon grinned down at him. “Really? Well,
then...” He turned to leave, unmoved by the threat. “Have yourself
a pleasant journey home,” he concluded, and chortled once more.
Speaking low to his men, he dismissed Iain, once and for all.

Iain’s destrier pranced beneath him, snorting in
protest to the tensions in his body, and he eased the pressure of
his knees, giving the animal respite. The feeling of foreboding was
at once resolved, as the lass’s words came back to him: I wonder,
would you do the same for a daughter? she’d asked.

Christ and bedamned, she had known.

His gut twisted at what was revealed to him.

His jaw clenched. God help him, he refused to
concede defeat to the arrogant son of a whore. “FitzSimon!” he
called out. The older man halted abruptly and pivoted to face him.
“I’m afraid you’ve little choice in the matter,” Iain contended,
his tone unyielding. “You’ll be sending down the boy now, or you’ll
be burying a king as well!”

FitzSimon’s hands fell from his sides, his interest
pique. “What say you, MacKinnon?”

“
At this verra moment,” Iain lied
without compunction, “the rest o’ my men have Henry’s camp
surrounded, awaiting word from me.” He didn’t care how he achieved
his aim, only that he did. “As God is my witness,” he swore, “deny
me my flesh and blood this day, and I’ll smite your bastard king
with my verra own hands!”

FitzSimon seemed to consider the threat. “You lie,
MacKinnon!” he proclaimed after a moment’s deliberation.

It was a challenge, Iain thought, and smiled. “D’
you think so?” he asked coolly. His mount pranced restively beneath
him, tossing its head and sidling backward, reflecting his own
agitation. He snapped the reins. “But are you willing to risk it,
FitzSimon? Shall I bring the whoreson here and slay him before your
verra eyes? Will you believe it then?”

“
Bastard!” FitzSimon returned. “I
think you would not! What, then, would prevent me from delivering
your son to you skewered upon my lance?”

Iain’s careful control snapped with the threat. He
surged from his saddle, standing in the stirrups, his fury evident
in every rigid inch of his body. “So help me, FitzSimon! I wouldst
lay waste to every inch of this God-accursed land! I wouldna relent
until your black heart rested in my hands! And I swear by Jacob’s
Stone that I willna rest until your blood salts this land! Return
my son to me this moment!”