The MacKinnon's Bride (9 page)

“
Rest, then, and I willna
trouble ye any further, lass.”

“
Sweet Jesu! I’ve no wish
to rest!”

“
Then you do wish to
converse?”

Page thought she could hear a smile in his
voice. She jerked her head about to catch his smug expression and
said, “I do not!”

“
Och, lass, make up your
mind,” he said, and Page clenched her teeth and tried to convince
herself not to slap the arrogant smile from his face.

“
I asked you not
to—”

“
I know, wench. Ye dinna
wish for me to call you ‘lass, but you havena said what then I
should call—”

“
My name is none of your
concern!” she assured.

He smiled then, flashing perfect white
teeth. “Verra well, lass. If you will, then.”

“
Mary!” she lied, trying
not to note the boyish dimple that had appeared, as well. “My name
is Mary!” She turned around, averting her gaze, more than a little
rattled by his too easy manner.

Wasn’t her abductor supposed to be cruel
with his words rather than winning? Why should he care over her
comforts, or her preferences, for that matter? “Are you pleased
now?” she asked him. “You can bloody well call me Mary!”

chapter 7

Of all the names she might have spouted,
Mairi was the last one he expected. He’d been unprepared for the
sound of it upon her lips.

Bloody hell, nothing else she might have
said could have spurred him into silence more swiftly. He’d been
determined to melt the icy walls surrounding her, win her over to
his people. The last thing they needed was a bitter wench to burden
them. They’d already had one of those to contend with.

Mairi.

Even these six years later, they were all
still reeling with the legacy she’d left them.

What would he tell Malcom on the day his son
should ask of his mother’s death?

He didn’t know. But Iain wasn’t certain he
could ever speak of it, for the memory of that morning tormented
him more than anything in his life. He could scarce think of that
high window without suffering a sweat and his knees turning as soft
as boiled meal.

His wife had loathed him so much.

Even Malcom hadn’t been enough to keep
her.

Sweat beaded upon his forehead. He closed
his eyes, warding away the image of her standing before the high
window. The vision passed before his eyes in a flash of white-hot
pain.

Mairi.

He wasn’t certain he could call the lass by
that name. He couldn’t even bear to think of her as such. The very
thought of the name wrenched at his gut.

He opened his eyes and sought out his son,
focusing upon the future, not the past. The sight of Malcom, his
soft golden hair shining under the sun, laughing and talking with
his cousin, comforted Iain at once. He allowed the issue of her
name to pass for now, and lapsed into silence along with her, more
than aware of the glances he was receiving from his men.

They were trying to understand, he knew.
He’d shocked the hell out of them with his lies about her father’s
intentions, but it couldn’t be helped. At the first opportunity he
would explain... what? His brows drew together into a frown. God’s
teeth, but what would he explain? He wasn’t even certain he
understood it himself. That he’d been driven to the lie? That he
couldn’t bear to hurt her? That something about the beautiful,
contentious, troublesome wench sitting so stiffly before him
brought out a fierce protectiveness in him... something apart from
the lust she aroused in him?

Christ, but he found himself wondering if,
in truth, she’d been championing his son last eve rather than
herself. He thought it might have been both, for behind her
bluster, Iain feared she masked a lifetime of her father’s scorn. A
lifetime of trying to please the unpleasable. He sensed in her the
same hunger, the same hopes and the same fears that he’d once
harbored himself for Mairi’s favor.

All for naught.

He could scarce bear to be the one to deal
the lass another blow.

She roused in him so many inexplicable
emotions, such irrational yearnings. Like the one he felt now to
undo the plait in her hair and comb through the soft strands with
his fingers until they were silk in his callused hands. He wanted
to see the play of sunlight upon her hair—somehow knew it would be
splendid. In the noonday light, her brown color turned the shade of
fire-lit henna.

And, God, her scent... sunshine and
verdure... the freshness of mountain mist on a day when the heather
was in high bloom. Like a wolf scenting his mate, it was all he
could do not to bury his face into the crook of her neck and
breathe the essence of her into his lungs.

Christ, but he needed to think of other
things—needed to get her away from him, somehow. His eyes lifted,
scanning the cavalcade for his son once more. He needed to speak
with Malcom, needed to hold his son, and yet here he sat, playing
nursemaid to a fork-tongued wench instead. He frowned at the
thought of her riding with someone else, anyone else, and cursed
himself for being an unreasonable arse.

Why should he care whether she affected
another man the way she affected him? She wasn’t his woman, after
all—nor did he desire her to be.

Bedamned, he could be wounded by a wit so
cutting as hers!

But he didn’t wholly trust his men not to
tell her the truth.

Nay, he resolved, until he could speak to
them privately, and until he had the opportunity to think of what
he would say to them—to her—she would continue to ride with him.
Malcom would be well enough riding with Lagan for the time being.
It was enough, for now, to know he was safe.

They continued on in silence, and when the
lass seemed to waver a little before him, Iain drew her back
against him once more, smiling over her indomitable will.

Stubborn wench.

This time she didn’t resist him. She went
slack against him and blew a spent breath. Iain smiled, for he knew
that somehow she’d managed to fall asleep sitting straight in the
saddle. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and he was
surprised she’d lasted so long. He allowed her to nap well into the
afternoon, all the while trying not to think about how good it felt
to hold the woman in his arms, how right it felt to protect
her.

It had been so long.

So bloody long.

“
Wake up,
lass!”

Page awoke to an insistent whisper.

“
Mary!”

A strange woman’s name, but whispered in her
ear... and she recalled groggily that she’d given the name instead
of her own. Her eyes flew open and she peered up into eyes that
were the color of the Scots’ uisge beatha, their renowned water of
life. Her father had favored it well. They were the color of sunlit
amber, and they were staring down at her intently.

Frowning.

“
Mary?” he said, his brow
lifting a little, and it seemed somehow a question.

Page sat at once, shaking off her slumber,
and snapped a curt “I’m fine.” She shrugged free of his unwelcome
support, and edged forward until he released her. She noticed,
then, that they were the last to remain mounted. It was dusk and
the rest of the band was already busy making camp for the night.
Jesu! It seemed she’d only just closed her eyes. Certainly she’d
not meant to sleep. “Where are we?” she asked, turning to look at
him, a little disoriented.

He was still scowling at her, watching her
keenly. “‘Tis where we’ll stop for the night,” he said only, with
narrowed eyes. “Does it suit you... Mary?”

Page thought it seemed he took offense to
the name she’d given him, though, for the life of her, she couldn’t
comprehend why. She thought about the name a moment, and in her
drowsy state couldn’t account for his reaction. “‘Tis a perfectly
suitable name,” she assured him. One, even, that she might have
liked for herself. Her brows knit as she contemplated the source of
his displeasure.

“
Aye,” he agreed, though
he was still frowning, and he said nothing more as he dismounted
and seized her from the saddle, without even bothering to ask her
whether she needed his assistance.

She would have liked to send him flying to
perdition.

But she was too exhausted to fight at the
moment, and so she merely sat upon a rotting log to watch the lot
of them settle in for the evening. It wasn’t long before the one
called Lagan sauntered toward them, young Malcom tripping at his
heels. With a rush and a squeal, the boy flung himself upon his
father’s back.

Page cringed in anticipation of the
MacKinnon’s reaction.

Bellowing in surprise, the MacKinnon swung
an arm about to catch his son by the waist and drag him around
before him. He knelt and hugged the boy fiercely, laughing
uproariously as he then ruffled his fine hair.

Page sat, gaping in wonder at the sight of
the two of them together.

The boy who would speak naught for so long
stood chattering with his father in their incomprehensible tongue,
and although Page understood next to nothing of their discourse,
she understood the essence of it all. Some part of her sighed with
relief that his father did not rebuff him. The greater part of her
quailed under an onslaught of emotions: envy, sorrow, a yearning so
deep, it made her heart feel like a vast, echoing cavern— and then
shame that she would begrudge the boy his father’s affection.

Nay, but she was elated for Malcom. She
wouldn’t wish her misery upon any child, not even her enemy’s, and
still, inexplicably, it pained her to see the affection between
them.

Watching them, it was more than evident that
the MacKinnon valued his son. One need only spy the two together to
know it was true. The MacKinnon’s smile was stunning in its
brilliance, and his golden eyes flashed with joy as he listened to
his son gibber on—pleading, it seemed.

What might it feel like to be the recipient
of such undivided attention? Such undeniable affection?

Page sighed with longing, her heart swelling
with tenderness for a father who would love his child so
openly.

The MacKinnon peered up at Lagan, offered a
clip directive, and Lagan nodded, placing a hand to the MacKinnon’s
shoulder in assurance. Whatever he said must have pleased Malcom
immensely, for the boy threw his arms about his father’s neck once
again and squealed with glee.

The MacKinnon’s gaze met her own over the
boy’s shoulder, and Page’s heart tumbled within her breast.

She averted her gaze at once, uncomfortable
with the emotions in peril of being revealed there.

Even once Lagan and Malcom left them, Page
didn’t dare acknowledge the man who stood before her, watching her
still.

And yet, neither could she keep her
curiosity quelled. “What is it you said to please him so?” she
asked, sounding uninterested, though her very question belied the
fact.

He didn’t bother to answer until she lifted
her face to his. “Malcom?”

Page nodded, mesmerized by the golden hue of
his eyes. In the dusky light, burnished by the waning sun, they
seemed almost translucent, angelic even. He was beautiful, in
truth—a man she could only have dreamt of loving, for no man who
looked as he did could ever want her in return.

It was a good thing she loathed him so …
there was little danger in losing her heart to the darksome
brute.

“
He asked to go
hunting.”

“
And you let him?” Page
surmised, somewhat surprised.

“
Dinna let his sweet face
fool you. My son is a capable hunter.” Page couldn’t help but hear
the note of concern along with the pride in his voice. “Malcom’s
wi’ his clansmen now, lass. No harm will come to him. My cousin
Lagan will see to it.”

Her brows lifted. “Lagan? Lagan is your
cousin?”

“
Aye.”

Page averted her gaze once more. “I never
would have guessed. The two of you seem so little alike.”

“
Really?” he answered,
narrowing his eyes at her. “Curious, that... I never would have
taken ye for a Mary, either, but ‘tis Mary you are—is that no’
right?”

Page furrowed her brow. Did he not believe
her?

Or was he simply making the point that she
should not judge?

“
Often things are no’ what
they seem,” he disclosed.

Page’s heartbeat quickened. “And what is it
you are trying to say, sir?”

“
Merely that you dinna
recall me to a Mary. The name doesna suit you.”

She released the breath she’d not realized
she’d held. “Really,” she said, sounding bored, although she wanted
more than anything to ask him what name he thought better suited
her. Butt she didn’t dare. The last she wished was for him to
discover her shame—nor did she care to return to elaborate upon the
differences between him and his cousin.

What could she possibly say?

Certainly she wasn’t about to admit that he
seemed the more kindly of the two. He was her gaoler, after all.
How could she think him kind?

“
I suggest you address the
matter with my father if you do not care for the name.
’Twas his choice, after all,” she
lied.

“
Was it?” he said, and
returned to tending his mount, without bothering to await her
reply. Though it was as crude a dismissal as Page had ever
received, she was silently grateful for the reprieve. At the
instant, there was a breach in her armor much too wide to close,
and she needed time to mend it.

Anger, she knew, was her refuge, and yet...
though she tried... she couldn’t even summon a shred of ire for a
man who showed such devotion to his son.