The MacKinnon's Bride (37 page)

“
Lagan!” Malcom cried. “I
couldna find him! I couldna! I looked but I couldna!”

“
Hush, Malcom!” Lagan
commanded him, reining in much too recklessly before the frantic
child.

It was obvious to Page that he was afeared,
and she suddenly didn’t feel any more at ease than he sounded. Her
heart leapt as the horse snorted and kicked in protest, nearly
striking Malcom’s little shoulder, and she held her breath until
the animal came to a full halt—held her tongue as well, for she
didn’t wholly trust Lagan. She would have risked anything for
Malcom’s sake, but she was beginning to sense that something was
very wrong.

Lagan dismounted quickly, and Page’s sense
of unease only intensified as she watched him immediately lift his
crossbow from its carrier. But she scarce had time to consider his
actions, for he made them clear enough at once.

“
I dinna believe in
wastin’ time,” he said, and aimed the weapon at Malcom. “Get
yourself on the horse, Malcom,” he commanded the child.

The answering look upon Malcom’s face
twisted Page’s heart. In the dusky twilight, his face seemed to
turn ashen before her eyes. His innocent green eyes widened in
grown-up comprehension and then slanted sadly like those of an old
man. “Lagan!” he cried woefully. His little-boy eyes welled with
tears.

Page started to dismount at once, to go to
him, but Lagan turned to her and commanded, “Stay!”

She froze when he turned the weapon upon
her—a momentary lapse, for God’s truth, she was no fearless
warrior! It took her an instant to recover herself, and then she
was heartily grateful the weapon was no longer trained upon
Malcom.

Bolstering her courage, she straightened her
spine and lifted her chin. “What is it you hope to gain from this?”
she asked him contemptuously. “What could possibly be worth harming
your own cousin? Jesu, he’s naught but a child!”

“
Cousin?” he asked her,
his words fraught with bitterness. “Nay, he is my nephew! But I
wasna given a choice o’er what he should call me. Well, I dinna
want him now! He can go to the devil, where I’m gain’ to send his
da, as well!”

“
I... I do not
understand,” Page said.

“
I dinna have the time to
explain it to ye!” He turned the weapon upon Malcom once more,
dismissing her. “Get yourself on the horse, brat.”

With the canopy of darkness descended almost
fully now, Malcom stood deeper within shadow, unmoving. Though she
could no longer see his face clearly, she felt her heart wrench for
the grief she knew he must be feeling. She knew he must be
terrified. Knew he must feel confused.

She knew, too, that she must divert Lagan’s
attention from him, for he was like to be no more capable of
responding to Lagan’s dictates than she had been all those times
her father had shattered her own illusions of him. She remembered
only the numbness—a cold, gray numbness that had filtered into
every corner of her soul, washing the colors from her life—a
numbness she’d carried within her very heart—until Iain MacKinnon
had taught her to feel again.

And here was his son.

She’d be damned to hell before she allowed
Lagan to destroy his childish dreams and trust, his innocence and
his zeal for life.

Anger filled her, a deep cleansing
anger.

“
What can you possibly
hope to gain from this?” she asked Lagan once more, knowing
instinctively that she could not prevail against him without
understanding the battle he waged—she knew his reasons, and now she
would know his intent. “Surely everyone will learn what you’ve
done... should any harm come to Malcom by your hand?”

“
No’ by my hand!” he
assured her, snorting disdainfully. “By yours!”

“
Nay,” Page countered,
“for I’ll not raise a finger against him! You will never force me
to! Place your arrow where you please, but I’ll not lift my hand
against this child—nor any other! Bloody your own
hands!”

“
I dinna think so!”
Chortling nastily, he turned to Malcom. “Get on the horse, Malcom,”
he persisted.

Malcom moved forward uncertainly this time,
and Page’s gaze scanned the shadowed horizon in panic, trying to
discern his intentions. He wanted Malcom upon the horse. Why?
Nothing was immediately discernible. The hillside sloped upward
sharply so that she could not see what lay beyond the summit—

Her breath caught, and her heart jolted, for
suddenly she understood.

His gaze followed hers. “Canny lass,” he
commended her. “’Tis a pity ye didna realize sooner... or ye ne’er
would have chosen this route for escape.”

Her mind raced for a way to stall him.
Anything to give them precious time. “And what of Malcom? Why would
I bring him?”

“
To appease your da, o’
course,” he said sweetly, and then turned and shouted at Malcom. “I
said to get on the horse, and do it now!”

“
Nay, Malcom!” Page
asserted. “Do not come any nearer!”

She sensed, more than saw, Malcom’s
compliance.

Though Lagan had the crossbow trained once
more upon her, Page slid down from the horse, daring to defy him.
God’s truth, but her father had always said she was unmindful, but
she was glad for it this moment, because she knew instinctively
that meekness would find the two of them lying at the bottom of a
cliff come morn.

Page could scarce see his features, but for
the eyes, and they were openly malicious. Night descended more
deeply in the long moments that they stared at one another. Her
heart pounded so fiercely that she feared the intensity of its
beating.

“
Get yourself back upon
that horse!” Lagan snarled at her.

Though she knew he could not see her, she
stood her place and lifted her chin. “Nay!” she refused, swallowing
convulsively. “I’ll not!”

He turned the weapon upon Malcom and faced
her as he demanded, “Get back on that horse!”

Page took a deep breath. Her heart hammered
fiercely, but she said again, “Nay! If you would murder us, then
you’ll do it your bloody self! I’ll not aid you in the endeavor!”
She turned to Malcom, and cursed the darkness that she could no
longer see his face, nor even the obscure silhouette of his body,
for he stood too far from her. And Lagan stood between them.

“
Malcom?” she called
out.

His response was a barely discernible
murmur. He was afeared, she knew. But he was a brave child. She
knew that, too, for he’d endured her father’s tirades without the
first tear or single fearful whimper. Despite her father’s endless
interrogations—the likes of which had brought wretched tears to her
eyes as a child—he’d held his tongue. He’d remained his father’s
son, through and through. Not broken and beaten as she’d first
thought, for his silence had not been in weakness, but in
strength.

“
Malcom,” she asked, her
heart sounding like thunder in her ears, “do you trust
me?”

“
A-Aye,” came his soft,
quavering response.

“
Lie down upon the
ground!” she directed him. “Lie down upon the ground, and do not
get up! Do you understand?”

“
Aye,” he answered, and
Page struggled to see him through the darkness.

She prayed to God that he did as she bade
him.

Lagan turned to her. “I dinna see what ye
hope to gain wi’ that!” he told her. “Och! Twill be a simple matter
to toss him o’er once I’m finished wi’ you!”

“
Aye?” Page taunted him.
Boldness had gained her much in her life. She sensed this was one
time she needed the advantage it would give her. Even knowing where
it would lead her, she turned her back toward the ledge. She knew
it was there, knew he knew it was there. She only hoped it wasn’t
obvious to him that she was aware of it, hoped he would think it
his own bright notion to walk her to the cliff. Praying with all
her might that she was doing the right thing—at least for Malcom’s
sake—she took a step backward, hoping he would subconsciously take
the hint. If he followed, then it would place much-needed distance
between him and Malcom. And that, ultimately, was her first goal—to
see Malcom safely away.

Sweet merciful Jesu, but she wasn’t certain
whether to cry out in fear or sigh in relief when he responded by
taking a step toward her. She crossed herself, and began to pray
aloud. “Holy Mary, Mother of Christ,” she whispered beneath her
breath. “Pray for us sinners...” She took an other step backward,
and did cry out when he responded with another step forward. “Now
and at the hour of our death,” she intoned.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

He merely chuckled, and continued to urge
her backward toward the cliff. “’Tis just like a Sassenach,” he
scorned her. “Turn to God when ye canna fight your battles like a
man!”

Despite her predicament, Page’s brows knit
in outrage. “Aye, well, I am a woman!” she reminded him
caustically, and wondered if she would ever learn to curb her
tongue. God’s truth, but what did it matter what she was, man or
woman, when she was going to be a dead one soon enough!

Well, she vowed, at least she would die
knowing Malcom was safe, because if she went over that cliff, she
fully intended to take Lagan down with her—villain that he was!

She continued to retreat while he followed,
until she neared the edge of the cliff and could scarce move back
any farther without tumbling downward. She pretended surprise at
the place of her arrival, but God’s truth, her gasp of fear was not
at all feigned!

Though she could barely discern Lagan’s
features now, his smile was evident by the moon’s reflection. She
stilled at the cliff edge, her heart tripping painfully as he
continued forward, stalking her... closer until his features were
once again discernible and he was within arm’s reach, and then she
screamed at the top of her lungs, “Run, Malcom! Run!”

Lagan turned at once to stop him. He lifted
his bow, and Page hurled herself against him. Cursing fiercely, he
shoved her backward, and attempted once more to aim for the distant
fleeing shadow. Page tried once more to stop him, but she stumbled
and lost her footing. She reached out to grasp something of
substance and found only Lagan’s hair, seizing a handful as she
toppled backward. With a yelp of pain and a cry of surprise, Lagan
dropped the bow and pitched after her.

For an instant and an eternity they tottered
together upon the bluff’s edge.

Page gasped, her grip tightening desperately
upon his hair. He struggled to free himself, but he was all that
was solid and real, and then there was nothingness behind her as
she fell backward.

“
And so the
dream...”

“
Was no dream a’tall,
Iain,” Glenna revealed. “What ye describe to me is exactly the way
it was the night your ma died.”

“
Awww God...” It was
Iain’s turn to bury his face within his hands. His jaw tautened
against the new tide of emotions. The voice in his dreams. The
eyes. They had all been memories... not fanciful wisps of his
imagination. His mother’s beautiful lilt.

And the dream... the scared little boy
awakened within his darkened bedchamber by a suffering mother’s
screams. While he’d lain within his bed clutching the bedsheets,
afeared to move, and yet wanting to run to her as much as he wanted
to hide beneath the sheets, it was Lagan she had been bearing into
the world... Lagan and not himself.

How could it be? How was it possible that
everyone could keep such a secret—so brilliantly that he had never
once perceived it?

And yet he somehow knew it for truth, for
with Glenna’s shocking revelation, the memory seemed to grow in
clarity.

He clenched his jaw. “Bluidy damn you
all!”

“
Iain...”

“
Why did no one e’er tell
me?” he asked her, without lifting his face to look at her. He
wasn’t certain he could—not without betraying his incredible
fury.

“
It was your da’s wish
that ye not be told,” Glenna revealed. “He didna wish for you to
know.”

“
Evidently. Who else knew
of this, Glenna?”

“’
Twas for your own guid,
Iain!”

He lifted his gaze to her face. “Who else
knew of this, Glenna!”

“
The MacLeans,
o’course.”

He sat abruptly, slamming a fist atop the
table. “Nay! I mean to say... amongst my own kinsmen... who else
knew of this?”

“
Angus, o’ course. He was
your da’s closet fellow.”

“
Who else?” he demanded of
her.

“
Och, Iain, many! But we
didna tell our children because your da forbade us.”

Iain shook his head, disbelieving his ears.
“So everyone knows?”

“
Nay... only those of us
who were of an age... Most do not. Your da never meant to hurt ye,
Iain, love...”

“
Nay? So tell me... how
did Lagan learn?”

Glenna lowered her eyes. “I told him.” She
shook her head lamentably. “When he returned so aggrieved after
tryin’ ti woo MacLean’s youngest daughter, he wanted to know why
auld mon MacLean wouldna listen to reason, why he seemed to condemn
him e’en before he listened to a single bluidy word.”

“
And why would that be?”
Iain asked her, his tone controlled, his body restrained, lest he
destroy all that he saw within sight in his temper. This very
moment, he felt near as violent in his anger as he had the day when
he’d returned to find Malcom gone.

“
Because... Iain... it had
been his brother your mother loved... his brother your father
killed. It was an accident, o’course. The two had long been
friends... but they fought... and there was too much rage between
them to stop it.” Her voice softened. “And ye dinna realize, Iain,
lad, but Lagan is the verra image o’ your minnie... while ye are
the likeness o’ your da.”