The MacKinnon's Bride (13 page)

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

“
Lift me a coo, and a goat
and a wether,” he murmured, trying desperately to recall the words.
He joined her hum without realizing. “Bring them hame to your
minnie together...”

Christ, he couldn’t recall the rest. His
chest hammered. Whose voice was it he recalled?

His mother’s?

Nay. He shook his head,
for it couldn’t be. His mother had died giving him birth. It
couldn’t be. He couldn’t be remembering a woman who’d taken her
last breath the very instant he’d sucked in his first.
’
Twas said that she had never even heard his
first wail.

Whose voice, then?

His heart beat frantically, and his palms
began to sweat. “Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee laddie,” he sang
softly, puzzling over the memory, unaware that he sang off tune and
out of place—or that his men all were listening to him croon like a
half-wit and a fool.

“
Lammie,” auld Angus broke
in suddenly, sounding weary and unusually heavy hearted.

Iain blinked, and asked, “What did ye
say?”

“
My bonny wee lammie. The
next verse is lammie,” Angus revealed, and then sang, “Hush ye, my
bairnie, my bonny wee lammie; Plenty o’ guid things ye shall bring
to your mammy...”

Auld Angus waited until the lass reached the
proper place in the ballad and then joined her hum with his rich
baritone. “Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee lammie; Plenty o’ guid
things ye shall bring to your mammy...”

Some of the other men were humming now, and
Iain couldn’t stifle his grin over the lass’s plan gone awry. He
was suddenly aware that Dougal had taken to his reed and was
playing the tune, as well.

The haunting strains floated upon the night
with his memory...

“
... Hare from the meadow,
and deer from the mountain, Grouse from the muir’lan, and trout
from the fountain.”

In unison his men all began to hum, and in
his mind, the woman’s soft voice continued...

“
Hush ye, my bairnie, my
bonny wee dearie,” auld Angus crooned. “Sleep, come and close eyes
so heavy and weary; Closed are ye eyes, an’ rest ye are takin’;
Sound be your sleepin’, and bright be your wakin’.”

By the time they finished the last verse,
Malcom’s little body was curled so close to the lass that Iain
could scarce make out who was who. His son’s soft snore revealed
he’d fallen asleep. Iain lay there a long moment, enjoying the
haunting beauty of the reed’s song, wondering of the woman’s voice
from his memory.

“
However did ye come by
the tune, lass?” he asked after a moment, hoping she wasn’t asleep
as yet.

chapter 11

“
Cora,” Page answered
softly.

“
Cora?”

She sighed, uncertain how to explain about
Cora. Certainly she wasn’t going to reveal to this stranger that
her father kept a leman. Her face flamed at the very thought.
“She’s... my... friend.”

Sweet Jesu! She wasn’t certain what she’d
expected from her ploy tonight—certainly not a chorus of fool
Scotsmen to sing along with her.

They’d done it for the boy, she knew. As had
she. Her heart ached for the child lying so intimately within her
arms. He’d called her by name. She’d been so afeared that the
MacKinnon would hear it, and that she’d be shamed. But he hadn’t,
and then Malcom had asked her so sweetly—how could she have refused
him, when grown men could no more do so?

“
Thank you,” the MacKinnon
whispered at her side, and Page’s throat closed with emotion. Lying
so intimately as they were, with his son nestled between them, she
could no more hold on to her ire than she could have refused the
boy.

“
Ye didna have to do it,”
he murmured, “but you’ve my gratitude, lass.”

For an instant Page couldn’t find her voice
to speak, and then she dared ask, “Thankful enough to return me to
my father?” She was desperate to be away from these
people—desperate, because some crazy part of her wanted to hold
fast to them and never let go.

All because of a simple song they’d shared
together, at the request of a little boy.

Foolish, foolish heart.

For her own sake, she needed to get away.
Before she might be tempted to stay. And that would never, never do
because they didn’t really want her—aye, they did for revenge, but
as soon as that was satisfied, she’d be worth less than nothing to
them.

He hadn’t answered as yet, and some
traitorous part of Page was afeared that he might agree to her
request. Ludicrous, she realized, but nevertheless true. “Will you
take me back?” she persisted.

His answer was a sigh and a whisper in the
darkness. “Nay, lass.”

Page released the breath she’d not realized
she’d held. Was that disappointment she felt? Relief? God’s truth,
she didn’t know, and she didn’t argue with him, couldn’t find her
voice to do so.

The reed’s music faded, the haunting strains
coming softer now.

“
When I heard him speak to
you, and realized he was not mute, I assumed Malcom could not
understand the English tongue,” she remarked with some
annoyance.

“
Of course he
understands,” he said. “I intend to teach him Latin, as
well.”

Her surprise was evident in her tone. “You
speak Latin?”

“
D’ ye think it only an
Englishman’s right to know God’s tongue?” he asked her.

Page bit into her lip to keep from revealing
the lowering fact that she’d never been taught. That he, a savage
Scot, would know these things, and she not, made her feel like the
wretched waif she must appear.

Then again, when had she ever felt like
anything more than a poor relation?

She sensed, more than saw, him turn to face
her. His movement tugged at her arm just a little, but not enough
to wake Malcom, who was lying so peacefully upon it. Jesu, her arm
was growing numb, but she didn’t care. There was something so sweet
about having him sleep there.

Something so right... and so breathtaking
about lying beside his father.

Iain. Angus had called him Iain. Page
savored the name privately.

Sheer foolishness, and still she stared,
trying to spy the MacKinnon’s face through the shadows, her heart
tripping against her breast. “He would not speak to me in my
father’s house,” she yielded.

For an instant he didn’t respond, and her
breath quickened painfully as she waited to hear his voice
again.

“
What would you have done
in his place?” he asked her, after a moment.

“
If I were a child alone
in the hands of strangers?” she asked softly. Her gaze shifted to
the shadow of the child lying so quietly beside her. “I... I don’t
know.”

“
He was afeared, is
all.”

“
I... I might have been,
too,” she admitted.

“
Are ye now,
lass?”

Page swallowed.

“
Afeared?”

“
Should I be?”

“
That I might hurt you?”
he answered. “Nay. Ye dinna have to fear for that.”

Something about the way that his voice
fluctuated, softened to a gruff whisper, sent her heart skidding
against her ribs. It mesmerized her, seduced her, drugged her
senses. He might have done anything to her in that instant and she
wouldn’t have been the least prepared.

“
What is it I should
fear?” she asked him boldly, her heart beating faster.

The silence between them was deafening as
Page awaited his response.

“
That I might want ye,” he
whispered, his voice deep and dark and silky.

Page choked. “M-me?” she stammered. “Y- you?
Nay!” she said breathlessly. “You couldn’t possibly!”

He chuckled and reached out unerringly to
seize her hand, drawing it toward him. It seemed to Page that her
blood roared through her ears as he tugged her gently toward him,
to place her hand upon his tunic, over that most private part of
him. She was shocked unto death to find him full and hard, and in
her astonishment, forgot to wrench her hand away. She couldn’t
speak, so stunned was she.

“
Dinna seem so surprised,
lass,” he murmured softly, leaning closer.

Page’s body convulsed secretly as she felt
his presence move toward her in the darkness, closing the space
between them, until his son’s body was all that kept them
separated.

Unreasonably, in that instant Page wished
his son were not sleeping so peacefully between them, for she
craved his father’s arms more than she’d ever craved anything in
her life. “I—” She stammered and forgot what it was she’d meant to
say.

“
Aye, lass,” he swore, and
his body pulsed beneath her hand, giving evidence to his words. “If
my son wasna lying between us... you’d have much to
fear.”

Page’s breath caught.

Sweet Jesu! Had he read her mind? Had she
spoken aloud? The blood quickened through her veins, but she was
too shocked by his bold words to be afraid. She felt his gaze
pierce her through the darkness, and dared to ask, her heart
hammering fiercely, “What... what is it... you would do?”

“’
Tis a dangerous question
ye ask.”

Page’s heart lurched. “You... you swore you
would not hurt me,” she reminded him.

“
Aye, lass, but I might be
tempted to show you.”

He pressed her hand more fully against him,
and Page felt him pulse again beneath her palm. She blinked, as
though coming aware suddenly of where her hand lay, and then jerked
it away, flushing with embarrassment. How could she possibly have
been so brazen?

He chuckled softly, and she lay back upon
the breacan to stare with mortification into the feathery darkness,
her breathing labored and her blush high—thank God for the shadows
that concealed it!

“
G’nite, lass,” he
whispered, a smile in his voice.

Page couldn’t find her own voice to respond.
She lay there, trying to determine what in creation had
happened—how things had gone so awry.

She’d gone into this night expecting to goad
the MacKinnon into anger, to make him sorely regret her presence,
and had ended trying to goad him into taking her into his arms.

What else could she have intended by asking
him questions of such a nature?

She’d also intended that his men should be
so weary after a night of her relentless singing that they could
scarce ride on the morrow. As it turned out, Page could hardly
close her eyes. Every moment, she was acutely aware of the man and
child lying beside her—of the ties at her wrist that kept her bound
to him. She might have attempted to reposition Malcom’s head and
work the bindings free, but she couldn’t bear to move the boy from
where he lay. And then, when the MacKinnon turned abruptly in his
sleep and drew her into an embrace that encompassed the three of
them, she couldn’t bear to end the sweet sense of belonging. She
closed her eyes, and vowed to savor every last second of this
euphoria in her heart. Shielding herself from the cold, she dared
to nestle deeper within the embrace.

Tomorrow she could devote herself to
escape.

Tonight she needed this more than she did
her next breath—if only for the night, she could pretend. Only
sometime, deep in the night, sleep cruelly deprived her, and she
slept.

chapter 12

Somehow morning dawned colder than the night
before.

Page awoke, shivering. Her sense of
emptiness returned. Misty sunlight shone into the glade, but that
meager light was not enough to warm her stiff bones, and the
overcast day promised a freezing rain that was certain to make the
stiffness eternal.

She had to find a way to escape today.

There must be some way to evade them...
somehow...

The MacKinnon had risen. So, too, had his
son, leaving her to sleep alone upon the breacan.

Well, she berated herself. What had she
expected? A morning kiss from the mighty MacKinnon? A waking hug
from his son? Hardly! They weren’t her family, she reminded
herself. They were her gaolers, naught more—no matter that they’d
shared a sweet moment the night before. It meant naught. Less than
naught.

Save to her, it seemed.

Jesu, but it had filled her with a sense of
belonging so keen and so beautiful that this morning she could only
mourn its loss.

She closed her eyes and shielded her face
from the morning light with an arm thrown across her eyes. If she
willed herself back... she could still feel the tendrils of warmth
and affection squeezing at her heart.

Certainly the warmth that sidled through her
this morn had naught to do with his bawdy promise! Her cheeks
burned at the mere memory of where her hand had been.

He’d said that he wanted her—for what, she
had no need to guess by the fullness of his loins. God have mercy
upon her soul, for some part of her had been ready to cast herself
into his arms, for merely the promise of affection, when she should
have recoiled at the insinuation.

Was she so hungry for affection that she was
willing to seek it, even at the risk of her own ruination?

It seemed so.

She sighed then, and sat, nettled by the
turn of her thoughts, for she knew what a futile gesture it would
be. She wasn’t part of this family. She wasn’t part of any family.
Offering her body as a sacrifice for his pleasure wasn’t going to
change anything at all.