The MacKinnon's Bride (10 page)

chapter 8

He’d managed to lure the others away, to
hunt in some other remote part of these woods.

And Malcom... As expected, the boy had
wandered away from them... straight into his waiting hands.

At long last, everything was going as
planned. A plan that was far too long coming to fruition. A plan
he’d thought to have fully realized six years earlier, when he’d
driven Iain’s young wife mad with fear of her new husband and had
fueled her with so much hatred for him that she’d preferred death
to bearing his touch ever again.

It was only too bad she hadn’t committed the
deed before giving birth to Iain’s brat.

And yet, it gave him some measure of
satisfaction to know that his father’s clan thought lain her
murderer, for lain had been the last to see her alive. He smiled at
that, knowing his half brother would strangle with guilt over the
memory until the day he died— well, mayhap that day would come
sooner than expected.

Aye, mistakes had been made.

When King David had sought his aid in
gaining custody of Iain’s son, in response to his own request for
David’s favor, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to rid himself
of Malcom. He’d only too soon realized that it accomplished naught.
David’s intent had been merely to install the boy as a ward of the
English court, far away, and safe even from him. Were anything to
happen to Iain, Malcom would then be brought back to take his place
as David’s poppet.

Nay, better that the boy was dead.

Aye, for it might be only a matter of time
before Malcom gave him away, at any rate. The wee brat had awakened
from his drugged slumber in the middle of the night, and he’d had
to croon him to sleep. Och, but it had been a sour note he’d
sung.

No more mistakes now, for he’d waited far
too long.

Keeping sight of Malcom, he withdrew an
arrow from his quiver and notched it within his bow. And then he
waited for just the right moment...

He wanted Malcom’s wee body to fall into the
brush, so he wouldn’t have to touch him afterward. He wanted this
kill to be a clean one, with no blood on his hands to give him
away. Nor did he intend for the body to be found until he was far
enough from the scene so as to be free from suspicion.

“
Malcom! There ye are,
lad!” Ranald bellowed, coming into view.

The bowman cursed silently, and gently eased
the bowstring back into place.

“
I was following a
rabbit!” Malcom declared. “Look, Ranald, look! I think he’s in
there!” He pointed to the bush that separated the bowman from his
prey.

Ranald scattered the bush, peering within,
over and about, and then he froze, meeting the bowman’s gaze
through the leafage. “There’s naught in the bush, lad,” he said
stiffly. “Go on wi’ ye now.”

Malcom’s face fell. “I want to make my da
proud!” he said. “I wanna catch him a rabbit!”

“
Aye, well, ye willna make
him proud by wanderin’ aboot all alone and getting yourself lost,”
Ranald scolded. “Go, now, and find the others—quickly, lest I tell
your da ye were a wee rotten scoundrel and strayed away. He willna
let ye come again, I think.”

“
Dinna tell!” Malcom
pleaded, thrusting out his lower lip.

“
Go, then,” Ranald
instructed.

Malcom turned at once and fled.

Ranald turned again to face the bowman
hidden within the bush. “I canna let ye do this,” he said once
Malcom was gone.

“
Ye canna stop
me.”

“
I should never have
helped ye to begin wi’,” Ranald hissed into the bush. He shook his
head. “However did I allow ye to talk me into it?”

“
You’re my verra best
friend,” the bowman said simply, quietly.

Ranald’s face turned florid with anger. “No’
if ye plan to murder an innocent laddie, I am no’! I’ll have no
part in this treachery! Ye said ye dinna wish to hurt him! Ye said
ye only wished to have him gone! I helped ye do that, but I’ll no’
be helpin’ anymore!” he swore. “I’m going to tell Iain! He should
have known long ago. ‘Tis his right to know the truth—all of
it!”

“
Nay!” the bowman snarled.
“Ye willna tell him that he is my brother, Ranald! I swore I
wouldna, and you willna either! I trusted you. You are the only one
who knows, aside from Glenna, and I canna let you tell that
tale.”

“
He deserves to know the
truth—and I will tell him, if you willna!” And with that, Ranald
turned to go.

“
Nay, you willna,” the
bowman said with certainty, and lifted the loaded bow.

Ranald stopped and slowly turned. “You
willna use it,” he predicted. “You wouldna—”

Without hesitation, the arrow flew, striking
true to its aim, straight into Ranald’s heart.

Ranald clutched at the shaft as he fell
backward. “Bluidy bastard!” he swore.

When Ranald did not rise, the bowman made
his way to where he lay, clutching the arrow still. The trickle of
blood from Ranald’s lips against the deathlike pallor of his face
held the bowman captivated for an instant.

“
Ye were... my friend,”
Ranald choked out, his eyes liquid with tears.

“
No longer,” the bowman
said softly, without remorse, and stamped the arrow deeper with the
heel of his boot. He drove it down until it passed into the soft
ground. The death rattle came as a strangled gurgle from Ranald’s
throat. Satisfied, the bowman bent to snap the remainder of the
shaft in two, taking with him the feathered fletching. It was his
habit to use the downy white feathers of an owl for his shaft- end,
and he would not have his mark recognized by those who would
know.

“
You shouldn’t have
betrayed me, Ranald,” he said to the lifeless body. “I would have
rewarded ye well. And damn ye, too.” For now he would have to wait
for a new chance to present itself. It would raise too much
suspicion were both Ranald and the boy to turn up missing now,
particularly since the three of them had together wandered away
from the rest of the hunting party. It wouldn’t look so good if
only he returned. Malcom was likely back safe in their fold
already.

Damn Ranald, the meddling bastard.

It wasn’t long before Page rediscovered her
ire.

The hunting party returned with quarry in
hand, and while they were charitable enough to share a generous
portion of their catch with their “hostage,” afterward they
immediately found a sturdy tree and leashed her to it—like some
mongrel they didn’t wish to have stray away. Page just sat there,
watching them spread their breacans to sleep upon, all the while
seething with anger.

How could they expect her to sleep like this
each night? All night! Surely they wouldn’t yet again?

And the MacKinnon... he hadn’t bothered even
to acknowledge her since plucking her from his mount. He’d been
preoccupied since the hunting party had returned. Lagan had spoken
to him briefly, and ever since he’d been in a fit of fury over
something—something the boy had done perchance, for he went to
Malcom at once and spoke to him sternly, sitting the boy down
before him while they supped, and eyeing him reprovingly. Malcom,
for his part, appeared suitably repentant. He sat before his
father, sulking, until even his papa took pity and patted his head.
The boy threw himself into his father’s arms then, and squeezed
fervently, his little arms scarce able to reach about the
MacKinnon’s broad chest..

Page found herself staring, unable to keep
herself from it.

Jesu, but he was a fine specimen—his
shoulders broad and well muscled, his body well formed. He appeared
to be a man unafraid of strenuous labor, and his body evidenced
that fact. She imagined him toiling alongside his kinsmen, with the
sweltering sun upon his back. As first she’d thought, his skin was
swarthy. His dark hair was striking, and the white hair at his
temples was nothing less than startling in contrast to the color of
his skin and his youthful features. She wondered again how old he
was.

She wished Cora were here. Born in the
Lowlands of Scotia, Cora was the daughter of her father’s new
leman. She’d impressed Page with her command of both the Highland
and the English tongues. She was also the first and only friend
Page had ever had. Cora would know what they were saying. As it
was, Page could only make out that Malcom “wouldn’t do it again.”
But what it was he was promising not to do again, she couldn’t
begin to decipher.

She watched them together, the way the
MacKinnon swept the hair from his son’s eyes, and found herself
wistful.

God’s truth, but it was a glorious sight to
behold... father and son

Would that her father had been so gentle
after a reprimanding. She’d have given much for him to look at her
just so... if only once. She sighed then, for she might have simply
wished he’d been so gentle in his rebuking of her as the MacKinnon
had been with his son. But he hadn’t been, and she couldn’t turn
back time.

There was no sense in weeping over it
now.

It was only that … now, at last, when her
father revealed some glimmer of affection for her—he’d risked
Henry’s wrath in bartering for her freedom and that had to count
for something—MacKinnon stole the chance from her.

“
Och, but ye could set a
mon to flames wi’ that glower, lass.”

Startled, Page’s gaze shot upward to find
the old man, Angus, standing over her, arms akimbo as he watched
her. She turned her glower upon him then. “Would that I could,” she
remarked. “Do you not have something better to do than to ogle me,
sir?”

He further vexed her by simply chuckling at
her question.

“
Prithee, I see little
humor in this!” Page hissed at him.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Aye, but
there’s humor to be seen, for certain, lass,” he returned
cryptically.

Page considered kicking the old man, but
doubted she could reach him from where she sat bound. “Why can you
not set me free?” she protested, jerking at the ties that bound her
wrists. “Why must I remain bound to this accursed tree? What have
you to fear of me?”

The old man scratched at his beard and shook
his head. “Well, I dunno,” he admitted, and proceeded to sit down
beside her. He leaned over to whisper, “We’ve been wondering the
same thing ourselves, ye see.” He lifted his brows and nodded at
her, as though he thought she knew what he was speaking of.

Crazed old fool.

Page narrowed her eyes at him. “Really?” she
asked, sounding taxed. “And what, perchance, did you come up
with?”

Again he chuckled, and leaned to whisper,
“No’ a thing, lass.”

Page snorted, and rolled her eyes. “Try an
eye for an eye,” she proposed, mocking his laird’s justification.
“And make yourself at home, why do you not?” She eyed the ground
where he’d plopped himself down, and then turned to smile at him
grimly. “In fact, if you would be so kind as to unbind my hands,”
she suggested in an acidly sweet tone, “I should be verra pleased
to run and fetch you a wee dram like a good little lass.” She
batted her lashes at him for effect.

He didn’t laugh this time. Instead, he
cocked his head reproachfully. “You dinna see me tryin’ to butcher
your tongue, now d’ you?”

“
You dinna have to try,”
she returned flippantly, smiling fiercely. “I would venture to say
you do it quite well naturally.” She lifted a brow. “At any rate, I
thought it a rather a good impersonation.”

Angus made to rise, shaking his head. “Och,
but ye are a pawky wench!” he swore, grimacing. “‘Tis a mystery to
me as to why the lad feels so beholden to save—”

“
You for myself,” the
MacKinnon broke in, scowling down at Angus as the old man rose to
his feet.

“
Och, you’re welcome to
her, Iain! ‘Tis glad I am to be leavin’ her to ye! I swear that men
have died by duller weapons than that vicious tongue o’
hers!”

Page blinked, her gaze flying upward to meet
the MacKinnon’s.

Iain.

The old man had called him Iain.

To save her for himself? She opened her
mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Surely he hadn’t said
what she thought he’d said? Or if he had, he couldn’t possibly have
meant what she thought he meant. Her brows drew together, for he
couldn’t... possibly... want her?

Nay, she decided. So he must be hiding
something. The old man had said that he felt beholden to save—what?
Her? But from what?

“
Busy makin’ friends, are
ye, lass?” he asked rudely.

Page blinked, trying to recall every word of
the exchange between the two, and nodded her head. “Aye...”

He lifted a brow, and his beautiful lips
turned faintly at the corners. “Wool-gathering, are ye?”

Page’s brow furrowed. “I—”

Jesu, she couldn’t remember the question.
She peered up at him, frowning, for she wasn’t about to ask the
arrogant wretch what it was he’d said.

He grinned down at her suddenly, flashing
white teeth. “‘Tis said,” he apprised, “that the mind is the first
to leave us. Shall we begin the funeral preparations so soon?” He
lifted his brows in unison.

Page’s cheeks flared. “You’re the one with
the silver hair!” she pointed out baldly, averting her gaze, unable
to bear his scrutiny an instant longer.

“
So I am, lass.” She
glanced up to spy the gleam of good humor in his gold-flecked eyes.
“So I am.”

“
How old are you anyway?”
Page flung back at him, curiosity getting the beter of her. “Two
score years?” She cocked her head, and added sweetly,
“More?”