The MacKinnon's Bride (7 page)

The older man seemed to recoil a little, but he took
a step forward and said, glaring down, “Arrogant Scots bastard!
What prevents me from putting an arrow through your bloody skull as
we speak?” FitzSimon’s men moved into position at the threat,
prepared to carry it out, but FitzSimon raised his hand, staying
them. “Best you tell me now,” he demanded, “afore you tempt me too
far.”

Iain removed his helm in a defiant gesture, smiling
resolutely. He was heartily glad for the lone man he’d left upon
the rise in the distance.

“
Look to my back, FitzSimon,” he
suggested, his expression one of utmost confidence. “Do you spy the
watchman upon the hill?”

FitzSimon shaded his eyes and peered into the
horizon as bade of him. His face, when he gazed down once more, was
visibly strained. He’d obviously spied the glitter of mail.

There was no way FitzSimon could know how many men
he’d brought with him, or how many lay in wait beyond the hill. He
couldn’t know that Iain had brought every last man save one to the
bargaining table. “You canna reach him in time to prevent my men
from carrying out their orders,” Iain said. “They lie in wait, even
as we speak. And still... the choice is yours. Do you care to try
me, FitzSimon?”

FitzSimon’s face became a mask of guarded fury. “How
is it you learned of Henry’s approach?” he asked, stalling
shrewdly. He turned to speak harshly to one of the men, and the man
hastened away.

Iain settled once more within the saddle,
recognizing the first sign of concession. His smile hardened. “You
have your daughter to thank for that,” he yielded. And then
advised, “Ad dinna be thinking to send a man to warn the king’s
army. I’ve anticipated that, as well. He willna make it oot the
postern without an arrow through his skull.”

FitzSimon lost his composure all at once, stamping
his foot and carrying on furiously, shouting obscenities. Iain was
taken aback by the callow display. “God damn that worthless bitch!”
he spat, and then stood, facing down Iain in silence.

Iain sensed his victory in that instant, and
demanded, “Send down the boy, FitzSimon, and I’ll leave be your
king in one piece!”

“
How can I be certain you speak
the truth, MacKinnon? Show me your proof.”

“
What proof can I offer, save
Henry’s head, FitzSimon? Nay, I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on
this one.”

“
Trust you?” FitzSimon scoffed.
“Only a fool would trust a bloody Scotsman! Even were I to return
the boy, what assurance have I that you will not fall upon Henry
still?”

“
Only my word,” Iain countered.
“Send down my son and I pledge you my word that I’ll no’ harm your
thieving king. All I wish is Malcom’s return, naught more. Gi’ him
to me, FitzSimon, and I’ll take my men and go at once.”

FitzSimon yielded to another outburst of temper,
cursing the Scots, cursing the fates, cursing David of Scotland for
placing him in such an untenable position by calling upon his
favor. He conferred with his men and then turned to address Iain.
“Very well, I’ll send down the boy. Take the witless bugger and be
gone!” He turned at once, not bothering to await Iain’s response,
and spoke to one of his men, then vanished from the ramparts.
Though it seemed an eternity, it wasn’t long before the portcullis
was raised. Iain’s heart hammered fiercely as he dismounted and
began to walk toward the opening gates.

“
Wait, laird!” Dougal called out.
“It could be a ruse!”

Iain couldn’t have stopped himself had he tried.

He didn’t spot Malcom at first, hidden as he was
behind the guard who preceded him, but when his little head peeked
about the guard’s massive frame, Iain thought his heart would burst
with joy and relief. Malcom squealed and began to run toward him,
and Iain lost all restraint in that instant and began to run as
well. His son leapt up into his arms with a joyous cry, and Iain
embraced him unashamedly. “Whelp!” he said hoarsely, and buried his
face against his son’s stout little shoulder. “Malcom, Malcom!”

“
I knew you would come, da! I knew
you would come!” Malcom snuggled against him. “I didna cry,” he
declared proudly. “I didna tell them anythin’! I swear, I
didna!”

Iain laughed softly. “So I’ve heard, whelp. So you
didna!”

He was vaguely aware of the gates being closed
against them, and then the portcullis being lowered as Malcom clung
to him. “I knew you’d come,” Malcom said again, and began to weep a
child’s tears. Iain braced the boy’s head against his shoulder,
comforting him, restraining his own raging emotions. “I’m goin’ to
take you home, son,” he swore, his voice breaking.

“
How very moving,” FitzSimon
declared from the ramparts above, his tone full of rancor. “Now
take your bastard and go, MacKinnon!”

Iain hung his head back, peering up into the
ramparts to meet FitzSimon’s gaze. “Aye,” he agreed. “You’ve kept
your end o’ the bargain, FitzSimon, and now I’ll keep mine. Your
daughter will be returned to you within the hour.”

“
Nay!” FitzSimon shook his head
vehemently. “Keep the bloody bitch!”

Iain was struck entirely dumb. Surely he didn’t mean
that... He was but angry...

“
If you return her to me,”
FitzSimon swore,

“
I’ll rip out her traitorous
tongue for her betrayal!”

Iain held his son in stunned disbelief. “I have no
need of the lass,” he returned. “Surely you cannot mean...”

“
Keep her, or kill her!” FitzSimon
declared. “I care not which—only get her the hell out of my sight!”
And then he withdrew, ending the discourse, once and for all,
leaving Iain and his men to stare after him in shock.

chapter 5

The men seemed unsettled as they rode from
the castle.

Iain knew they were both excited and
relieved about Malcom’s return, but they must have sensed his mood,
for they remained reserved, waiting their turn to welcome Malcom
back into the fold.

Iain was confused.

It didn’t matter that the hostage awaiting
them wasn’t one of their own clan members, he anticipated her pain
and sorrow just the same, and found himself angered on her behalf.
Uncharacteristically, his son clung to his back, accepting the
men’s good-natured ribbing and their welcome pats with subdued good
cheer. Iain was scarce aware of the men’s comings and goings. Try
as he might, he couldn’t forget the lass’s prideful boasts.

She’d seemed so very certain.

Or had she?

Of course he values me... I am his daughter,
am I not?

She hadn’t appeared so certain, then, and he
had wondered...

Have you changed your mind... decided you
cannot part with me, after all...

Christ, but she wasn’t his concern.

Surely her father would not carry out his
threat if he returned her.

She was his daughter, after all, his flesh
and blood. He was but angry. And determining so, he reached back to
seize Malcom about the waist. He brought his son around to sit
before him, inspecting him. His men drifted away, affording them
privacy. Malcom giggled softly and latched on to him again, seeming
afeared to release him lest he vanish from sight. Iain’s heart
squeezed within his chest.

“
I’ve missed you, whelp,”
he said affectionately, tousling Malcom’s fine golden hair. He had
to restrain himself from beginning an interrogation then and there.
More than aught, he wished to discover the name of the traitor, to
ask how he’d been treated, to assure him it would never happen
again, but now was not the time, he knew. All that mattered at the
moment was that Malcom was safe—damned if he’d allow anything to
part them ever again. Nay, he would question Malcom later, when his
son felt himself secure once more... when FitzSimon’s daughter was
no longer his bloody concern.

It had been years since Page had chewed her
nails, but she sat gnawing them now, watching the one called Ranald
pace the ground before her. To the contrary, Ranald seemed not to
notice her at all, and she might have tried to steal away already,
save that when she dared to move from her spot by the tree, he
turned to growl at her like a mongrel dog protecting his bone.

God’s truth, Page had never kicked a dog
before—never even been inclined to—rather had smuggled them within
her room, instead, to feed them scraps she’d purloined from the
table, but she certainly felt like kicking Ranald right now. Like
his laird, he was an overbearing brute!

She wondered whether the MacKinnon had met
with her father as yet—worried what her father would say.

Most of all she dreaded facing him.

The MacKinnon, that was, not her father.

She had a suspicion she might never set eyes
upon her father again.

But that wasn’t what troubled her most.

Unreasonably, the desperation she felt to
escape stemmed less from the fact that she longed to go home, and
more from the fact that she was wholly and justly humiliated over
having to face the MacKinnon. She’d spoken pridefully, and
threatened fallaciously, and as soon as he spoke with her father he
would know it for what it was.

Why did she care what he thought of her?

Would he laugh in her face? Mock her? Pity
her?

She didn’t think she could bear it—anything
would be better than his pity. Her eyes stung at the merest
notion.

Confusing, arrogant Scot!

Why had he shown her any consideration?

It would have been so much easier had he
shown her cruelty, instead. Jesu! That, she might have dealt with!
She might have gritted her teeth and borne it. But pity was another
matter entirely.

Why did he have to go and call her lass as
though he cared?

His tone when he had addressed her made her
feel... she wasn’t certain how it made her feel. She only knew that
the thrill she experienced when he spoke the endearment—it
certainly sounded an endearment—didn’t begin to eclipse the
despair.

Somehow, in the space of a single night,
he’d managed to rip open every wound she’d healed throughout the
years.

Both she and Ranald heard the approaching
hooves at the same time.

Ranald quit his pacing to face his clan as
they emerged through the trees into the little copse. Page’s heart
vaulted into her throat. Hot tears, though she tried to suppress
them, burned at her eyes. She didn’t dare stand—felt, instead, like
burrowing a den deep in the ground and hiding within it for the
rest of her given days. She shouldn’t care, and told herself she
didn’t care, but she knew very well it was a bloody lie. Somehow,
she cared very much what the MacKinnon thought of her.

The one called Lagan emerged first, waving
his hand and speaking his Scots tongue fervidly, and Page had no
inkling what he was saying. In truth, she couldn’t particularly
tell whether he was furious or gleeful, for his expressions were
mixed. A few men straggled into the copse behind him; they, too,
spoke excitedly.

And then came the MacKinnon, and Page
understood at once.

Her emotions rose to choke her, and her
tears began to course down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop them, for
the MacKinnon’s son rode before him.

Her father had dealt with them!

He wanted her back!

Her stomach surged and she was so relieved,
she thought she might be sick. Swiping the wetness from her cheeks,
Page rose to her feet to face the MacKinnon, emotional laughter
bubbling up from the depths of her.

Her father wanted her back!

She felt invulnerable with that knowledge,
warmed like never before, exhilarated, as if she were soaring to
the heights of Heaven with her joy.

Until the MacKinnon’s gaze turned upon
her.

The look he cast her sent a frisson racing
down her spine. His stance was rigid in the saddle, the muscle in
his jaw ticked, and his amber-gold eyes pierced her as surely as a
Welshman’s arrow. God help her, she couldn’t have torn her gaze
away had she tried.

She’d been weeping.

Inexplicable anger mounted within Iain.

Damn, but she wasn’t his concern.

The best he could do was release her and be
along his merry way.

So why did he feel like pivoting his mount
about, calling her father down, and running his blade through the
bastard’s black heart?

The moment she’d spied Malcom sitting before
him, her eyes lit with joy. Not a trace of avenging pride. And
relief, he spied relief there, as well. His heart squeezed
painfully, for it occurred to him, then, just what it was she
thought. She assumed her father had bargained for her return.

Worthless bastard.
He
should
have
bargained for her return!

He didn’t have the heart to tell her the
truth.

How could he tell her that her whoreson
father had given her the greatest insult? That he couldn’t have
cared one whit what was done to her now—and that he certainly
hadn’t wished her return? Christ, that he’d sworn, even, to rip out
her tongue? What manner of father was that?

Nay, he couldn’t do it; he couldn’t bring
himself to break her heart.

How could her father?

Her hopeful expression was
Iain’s undoing. Or mayhap
’
twas simply the
memory of how she’d spoken so heroically of the father who plainly
didn’t care for her.

It turned his stomach, made him feel things
he had no cause to feel.

She came forward, looking more fragile than
Iain recalled, and it was all he could do to wipe the disgust from
his face. With mere words he thought he might break her in twain.
He pictured her lying, weeping at his feet, her spirit broken, and
the image both anguished and angered him.