The MacKinnon's Bride (12 page)

Page sat, too, glaring at him. “I swore I
would make your life miserable, and I will! I’ll not go
willingly!”

“
But you will go,” he
avowed.

It was getting dark now, shadows descending.
Page felt them seep into her heart. The numbness in her wrists was
fading now, and her hands and fingers were beginning to hurt. She
massaged them, embracing the pain. It was a welcome
distraction.

He reached out suddenly and grasped her
wrist, not injuriously. Page started to jerk away, but he held her
fast.

“
I’m going to bind your
wrist to mine,” he explained.

Page opened her mouth to object, but he
stopped her with a curt gesture.

“’
Tis the only way I’ll
allow ye to remain unfettered.”

“
Unfettered!” Page
contended, incredulous. She tried to jerk her arm free, but his
grip was unyielding. “What do you call binding my wrist to
yours?”

“
A safety measure,” he
relented.

Page glared at him.

“
The choice is yours,
lass...”

She let her arm go slack in his grasp, and
snorted inelegantly. “What a choice! Bind me, then.”

He did at once, binding her right hand to
his left hand, securing the bonds, and then with his other hand, he
removed the scarlet and black checkered blanket from his shoulders.
He muttered an oath as he floundered over its removal, and then he
glanced at her as though asking for her assistance.

Page screwed her face at him and drew back a
little, thinking him mad. “You cannot possibly think I would
help?”

His lips curved into a crooked grin. “I
dinna suppose you would, at that.” He eyed her discerningly, and
resolved to use both hands. He drew off his breacan and spread it
between them, lifting himself up to draw half of the blanket
beneath himself. Page considered a moment, and then did the same,
knowing she’d only spite herself if she resisted. He offered her a
little lopsided grin for her effort, but she refused to acknowledge
it. She didn’t wait for him to lie down, but did so at once
herself, taking up as much of the blanket as she dared, and a
little bit more.

To her surprise, he didn’t complain when
there was only a sliver of blanket left for him. He simply lay upon
his apportioned share, half on the blanket, half off.

So he meant to be chivalrous, did he?

Well, she fully intended to be anything but
courtly!

“
Iain,” Lagan said,
appearing above them. His face twisted into a frown as he stared
down at them. “How verra cozy,” he remarked with a curve to his
lips. Page averted her gaze, wholly uncomfortable with the glare he
cast her.

“
What is it,
Lagan?”

“
Ranald,” Lagan said, and
his look softened to one of concern. He spoke to the MacKinnon in
his own tongue.

“
Go and look for him,
then,” Iain answered so that she understood. “But dinna fret
overmuch... Remember ‘tis Ranald the scavenger we’re speaking of.
He’ll be back on his own... as always.”

“
Aye,” Lagan agreed.
“You’re like to be right. He’ll come back when it suits him... He
always does. G’nite, then, Iain.”

“
G’nite,” Iain replied.
“Get yourself some rest, Lagan.”

“
Aye,” Lagan said, turning
from them, his lips curving into a leer. “You too,
Iain.”

He walked away, leaving them alone once
more—as alone as they might be with a horde of barbarians
surrounding them.

Without the sun to warm them, the northern
spring night was wintry, but peaceful. Page lay there, staring past
the budding leaves on the treetops, until the leaves were no more
than shadows against the night sky. She stared up at the frosty
points of light, trying not to notice the rising chill. Curious,
that... last eve, on her way to her swim, she’d gazed up at those
very same stars... they had seemed more like brilliant winking
fires then... promising the gentle warmth of a summer night’s
breeze.

She shivered and curled upon the blanket as
she heard little Malcom come and make his bed on the other side of
his father. The two of them whispered together in their tongue, and
the MacKinnon chuckled. Envy pricked at her, but she ignored it,
wholly shamed by the uncharacteristic reaction.

Sweet Jesu, what was wrong with her that she
would begrudge a child his father’s affections?

He was what was wrong with her, Page assured
herself, bristling.

He’d come into her life and had made her
feel again—all these accursed emotions she’d tucked so neatly
away!

Well, by God, she was going to have the last
word tonight—or rather the last song—and she hoped she kept them
awake all night long! She hoped they would be so blessed weary come
first light that they would need put twigs in their eyes to keep
them open!

She waited patiently until the darkness
descended more fully, until it seemed everyone had settled for the
night, and then she began to sing at the top of her lungs.

chapter 10

Iain had only begun to doze.

He came full awake with a start, his eyes
crossing at the resounding shrillness of her voice. Bloody hell,
but he should have known her compliance was too good to be true! He
frowned as Malcom’s little body jerked awake.

One by one, his men came awake, as well—some
with a snort of surprise, others with mumbled “Huhs?” and still
others with muttered curses.

And still she sang on, some English ballad
about some man whose truest love had spurned him.

“
Softly the west wind
blows; gaily the warm sun goes; The earth her bosom sheweth, and
with all sweetness floweth. I see it with mine eyes, I hear it with
mine ears, But in my heart of sighs, yet am I full of tears. Alone
with thought I sit, and blench, remembering it; Sometimes I lift my
head, I neither see nor hear...”

And so she continued, her song blaring, her
melody true, but grating in its untimeliness and its volume. Iain
waited impatiently, teeth clenched until he thought they might
shatter. He stared into the darkness, while his men continued to
grumble complaints, refusing to allow himself to be baited. He knew
what she was trying to do, and God’s teeth, it was working! But
he’d be damned if he’d let her know it!

She’d grow tired soon enough and quit, he
assured himself, and was rewarded when at the end of the verse, she
suddenly quieted.

Sighing with vexed relief, Iain closed his
eyes, only to snap them open when she began the verse over
again.

This time louder.

Muttering silent curses, he said nothing,
keeping reign upon his temper. Neither did his men speak but to
themselves, until she began the verse yet a third time.

“
Och, now, Iain!” Angus
complained loudly. “Canna ye make her leave the lays until the
morrow!”

His complaint was reinforced by a number of
groans and muttered curses as the lass sang louder still. Iain
closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, praying to God to give him
strength.

“
Bluidy willful English!”
muttered Lagan.

He’d taken the words right out of Iain’s
mouth.

When Malcom lifted his little head and
peered at her through the shadows, he decided enough was enough.
Before his son could voice his own complaint, Iain inhaled a
bellow—and strangled on his words as an enormous bug flew down his
throat, silencing him.

Choking and coughing, Iain dragged his son
from atop him and turned to slap a hand over the wench’s mouth,
trying to save her from herself. Christ, he could have sworn she
smiled at his attempt to hush her. Preoccupied with strangling as
he was, his muzzle stopped her all of two seconds and then she
began the verse yet another time, though this time the words were
muffled through his fingers.

“
Bluidy hell, doesna she
know another song, at least?” Dougal asked.

Iain might have asked the very same thing,
were he not struggling for his next breath. Damn the vexsome wench!
Still choking, he sat, dragging her with him as he leaned to hawk
the bug from his mouth. Nothing came, and he was mightily afraid
he’d swallowed the creature. Damn!

She sang louder, and Iain peered at her from
the corner of his eyes, considering thrusting the whole of his arm
down her throat. “Stubborn,” he rasped, and choked again, giving in
to another coughing fit. “Stubborn, fashious wench,” he finished
when he could.

“
Da... will ye leave her
to sing,” Malcom whispered.

Shocked by the request, Iain stared down at
his son through the shadows, thinking that surely the bug had
addled his brains, or he must have imagined the soft plea. Malcom
had never favored coddling. Ever. He’d been a wee man from the
first day he could walk and talk.

“
I dinna want her to
stop,” his son said somewhat desperately.

Though nothing else had managed to
accomplish the feat, Malcom’s uncertain request hushed the lass
abruptly.

The glade turned silent, his men mute.

“’
Tis a verra pretty
song,” Malcom said. “Will ye sing me another, Page?”

Shocked by his son’s entreaty, Iain felt her
swallow and he dropped his hand to allow her to reply, his heart
twisting at the innocent request. The glade seemed to become
quieter still as everyone awaited her reply.

For a long instant, she didn’t answer, and
Iain held his breath as his son added, a little aggrievedly, “My
mammy never sung to me. She went to be wi’ God when I was born.
Will ye sing to me, please?”

Iain’s heart twisted and his eyes burned
with tears he’d never shed for a wife who had never loved him.
“Malcom,” he began, anticipating her refusal.

“
Iain, ye heartless cur!”
Angus’s gruff voice interjected. “Let the lass—” The old man’s
voice broke with emotion, and Iain knew that his eyes stung, as did
his own. “Let the lass sing to the wee laddie, will ye?” he
finished, his voice sounding more tender than the old coot would
surely have liked.

“
Aye,” added Dougal. “Let
her sing to the wee lad! Malcom never had him someone to sing him a
lullai bye.”

Iain swallowed his grief for his son and
felt a leaden weight in his heart. “’Tis a fickle lot, ye are,” he
groused.

“
Can she, da?” Malcom
begged. “Can she sing to me?”

“
Will she?” Iain amended,
frowning. Bloody hell, but he couldn’t make the lass sing if she
didn’t wish to—no more than he could have made her stop when she
would not.

“
Aye,” she answered
abruptly, surprising him. Iain’s gaze tried to reach her through
the shadows, but she was staring down at his son. “I’ll sing,” she
said softly, and there were murmurs of approval from his
men.

“
What is it you wish me to
sing?” she asked Malcom after a moment.

“
Och, ye can sing
anythin’!” his son declared excitedly, and then crawled over Iain
to lie between them, as though it were a perfectly natural thing
for him to do.

Iain sat speechless.

For an instant there was no movement from
her side of the breacan, and then she lay down next to his son,
jerking Iain’s arm out from under him and tugging him down to lie
beside them. Iain thought she might have done it on purpose—her way
of letting him know that while she’d given in to the son’s request,
she didn’t like the father any better for it. He would have grinned
over her pique, save that he was too stunned by the turn of events
even to think clearly.

“
D’ ye know anythin’
Scots?” Malcom asked hopefully, facing her.

“
I know one,” she
answered, “but not the words.”

“
Oh,” Malcom answered,
sounding a little disappointed. As he watched the two of them
together, Iain’s heart ached for all the things Mairi had deprived
him of. Six years old and his son still craved a gentle voice to
lull him to sleep. He couldn’t help but wonder what else Malcom
craved.

What had he missed? And had he done things
right? No one had been there to tell him otherwise, and he’d just
done what he could—what he knew to do. What if he’d not been a good
father to Malcom all these years?

He coughed lightly, telling himself it was
the bug that still scratched his throat, and not grief that
strangled him.

“
I-I can hum it,” the lass
said, and began, a little hesitantly.

For an instant Iain was too benumbed to make
out the voice, and less the melody. And then it became clearer, and
the ballad penetrated the fog of his brain.

His heartbeat quickened.

From where did he know that song?

Hauntingly familiar, and yet so strange
coming from the lass’s English lips, he couldn’t make it out,
though he tried.

As she continued to hum, the memory tried to
surface from the blackness of his mind, achingly dulcet, and yet so
hazy and indistinct, he couldn’t bring it fully to light; a woman’s
voice... so familiar and soothing...

Not Mairi’s voice, for he’d never heard her
sing a note in her life.

Not Glenna either.

Whose voice?

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, as the
words of a forgotten verse came to him.

Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee laddie...
when you’re a man, ye shall follow your daddy...

He felt the jolt physically, as though his
body had been stricken by an invisible bolt of lightning.

Bewildered, Iain laid his head down upon the
breacan and stared into the darkness, at the almost
indistinguishable silhouette of the two lying beside him, trying to
remember.