The MacKinnon's Bride (36 page)

“
Aye,” Broc said, and
turned to go.

“
But do not tell her I am
coming,” Iain charged him.

The last thing he wished was for his
stalwart aunt to prepare herself to face him—to put away her
sorrows and her worries. If there was aught plaguing her, he would
know it. After all that she’d been there for him, it was the least
he could do for her.

He only wondered why it was that she would
not see her son. When he thought on it, Lagan had been acting
strange of late, as well, although Iain attributed the fact to his
quarrel with auld mon MacLean, and then to Ranald’s death. And yet
his cousin had been conspicuously absent at Ranald’s wake—neither
had he offered to carry his longtime friend on the voyage home.

Had Iain not been so preoccupied with
finding the traitor in their midst, he might have taken notice
sooner. But something was amiss between them, and he would set it
to rights at once.

Better late than not at all.

Time was his enemy now.

His final chance had presented itself, and
he knew he must hie to take advantage.

Nightfall would come soon enough, and
knowing Malcom would never disobey his da by wandering out to the
Lover’s Bluff alone after twilight, he’d been forced to lie to the
lad, telling him Iain awaited him upon the cliff top. The little
whelp had gone without question.

But Malcom wouldn’t remain there long once
he discovered his father was not there, and once the light began to
fade he would come scurrying back as fast as his wee legs could
take him.

Aye, he would need plan carefully now... in
order for all to go as it should.

He hadn’t intended to do a bluidy thing this
eve, but he’d been watching... and waiting.

’
Twas a good thing, too,
for Broc had, at long last, managed to draw Iain away from his
Sassenach whore.

The tale he would tell was clear in his
mind: As this was the first time Iain had left her completely
unattended, she would naturally choose it to make her escape. And
certainly she would wish to take the boy with her to appease her
father.

Such a shame she’d not realized how abruptly
the bluffs ended.

And of course, it would be much too dark for
her to realize until she and Malcom had already plummeted over the
cliff to the rocks below.

Such a bluidy rotten shame...

Of course, he knew the reality would scarce
be so simple. He was fully aware he’d need use some...
persuasion... to get the wench o’er the cliff.

Malcom would be another matter entirely. The
brat would give him little enough trouble. He would simply lift him
up by his stout little-boy arms and toss him o’er the ledge.

The very thought made him smile—not that he
particularly cared to hear the lad’s screams, o’ course, or to hear
him suffer and plead—but he was goddamned tired of looking at his
bratty li’l face.

Och! And only imagine what a misfortune it
would become... were Iain to find their bodies broken together upon
the rocks below... the woman he loved—once more—and his beloved
son...

Certainly it would be conceivable that he
might find himself unable to cope. That was his hope. After all...
what man wouldn’t find it unbearable to lose two women—both having
flown to escape him—and then his only son?

In the end, wouldn’t it seem perfectly
comprehensible that the three would tragically meet the same
fate?

Such poetic justice!

Damn, but if Iain didn’t think of ending it
so himself, Lagan would surely find a way to prescribe it.

And with that thought he quickened his pace,
feeling a rush of excitement o’er the confrontation at hand. He had
no notion how long Iain would be gone from his chamber, or to where
he had gone—nor did he intend to linger for anyone to spy him
stealing up the tower steps. He climbed them swiftly, his footsteps
lithe and full of purpose. The light within the tower had faded
with the gloaming, and though he noted the absence of lit torches,
he didn’t take the time to consider why Glenna would be so slow to
light them tonight.

Whatever the reason, it worked to his
favor.

At long last, the waiting was over, and
Lagan would finally see justice done—for the father he’d never
known, the mother he’d never claimed, and the brother who had never
even once looked into his eyes and spied the truth between
them!

Page was uncertain what it was that woke
her—some sound, something—but she opened her eyes to a room filled
with the gray shades of twilight. Sated from the afternoon’s
exertions, she stretched lazily, and turned, only to find a scream
caught in her throat. Startled, she lurched up in the bed, jerking
up the sheets to conceal herself.

The shadow came forward, revealing himself.
“I wasna certain whether to wake ye, or nay.”

“
What are you doing here?”
Page demanded of him.

“‘
Tis the lad,” Lagan told
her. “Malcom. I wouldna trouble ye, lass, were he no’ so
distressed.”

“
Malcom?” Her brow
furrowed with worry. Whatever ill will she felt for Lagan, she set
aside for Malcom’s sake. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Lagan was silent a moment, his expression
grave, and Page’s heart began to hammer with fear. “What is it?”
Her gaze swept the room. “Where is Iain?”

“
Well, you see...” Lagan
knelt beside the bed, peering quickly at the door as he did so. And
then his gaze returned to Page, and it seemed fraught with worry.
“I canna tell his da... ‘Tis his da he’s afeared for.”

Page’s brows knit. “I do not
understand.”

“
Ye see...” He glanced up
at the window and then back. In the fading light his face was ashen
with despair. “He overheard his da shouting at ye, lass... an’ he’s
afeared ‘tis happened again.”

“
What has happened again?”
Page asked, following his gaze to the window once more. Her brows
lifted in comprehension, and her gaze returned to Lagan. “Surely he
cannot think his da would—”

“
Och, lass, but he
does!”

“
Nay!” Page exclaimed in
dismay. “However could he think such a thing!”

Lagan’s mouth twisted into a grimace. He
peered down at the floor between them. “Secrets have their way o’
revealin’ themselves,” he told her.

Something about the tone of his voice sent a
quiver racing down her spine. “Aye,” she agreed, and clutched the
covers more firmly to her breast.

“
If he could but see ye...
then he would know he fears for naught. Will ye come?”

“
Of course,” Page assured
him. “Where is he?”

“
He ran oot upon the
bluff.”

Her gaze returned to the window. The rosy
sky was fast turning to violet-gray shadows.

“
I’ll go,” Page agreed.
“Only give me a moment to dress.”

“
Certainly,” he said, and
stood. But he didn’t leave, nor did he turn away.

He stared a long instant at the sheet she
had clutched to her bosom, and her face burned under his scrutiny.
“Alone, please,” she urged him.

“
Ye dinna mind Iain
watching, do ye, though?” he snapped at her, and then seemed to
snake himself free of his anger. “Verra well, I’ll be just beyond
the door—come quickly,” he urged. “The hour grows late, and I
wouldna have Malcom come to any harm.”

“
Nor I,” Page assured him,
shuddering at the sharp sway of his mood. She waited until he’d
left her, closing the door in his wake, and then she scrambled out
of the bed to dress.

It was evident Lagan did not like her—less
did he seem to relish finding her in Iain’s bed. But then it was a
mutual disgust, for neither did she care for him. Though it
mattered not at all, for only Malcom mattered at this moment. She
would have done anything for Iain’s son, and bearing Lagan’s
company seemed a small enough price to repay Iain for all he’d done
for her.

It was certainly the least she could do in
return.

Upon entering the small croft, Iain found
the room dark with descending shadows, no candles lit at all.

Glenna sat hunched over a table, weeping
disconsolately into her hands. It wrenched at his gut to see the
woman who had raised him feeling so aggrieved. She was still a
bonny lass, though time and toil had carved their marks upon her
face, and he never once looked upon her without wondering if his
own mother’s face had been so fair.

“
Glenna,” he called out
softly.

Startled, she lifted her tear-streaked face
at once, and then quickly swiped the telltale wetness from her
cheeks. “What is it, Iain, love?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

It was so like her to put aside her own
cares for those of the kinsmen she loved. It had never mattered to
Glenna whether she herself was sick, or tired, or simply downcast,
if she was needed by any of her kin, she was always there. He’d not
quite spoken true when he’d told Page that here all fended for
themselves, for Glenna looked diligently after them all. Malcom
particularly. Ever eager, she performed her duties with nary a
complaint.

The night Malcom had been born, she’d been
sick with her lungs, yet she’d stayed all the night long with
Mairi, brushing the hair from Mairi’s face, dampening her lips when
she’d thirsted. Och, but she’d always found room in her heart for a
little boy who’d craved his mother’s skirts as desperately as a
leper for human touch—so hungry for notice and human compassion
that he would cherish the passing smile from a stranger’s lips. His
own need for her affection had been great. Malcom’s too. And she
had loved them both as she had her own.

Christ, but he’d envied Lagan.

Iain would have given all just to know his
mother’s voice, while Lagan had never treated his own with a
modicum of respect—not even as a child had he allowed her to succor
him. He had shunned her motherly touch, as though ashamed of the
woman whose hands had mopped his brow and whose breasts had suckled
him as a babe.

“
In truth,” he told his
aunt, as he came into the room, closing the door behind him, “I
came to see to you.”

“
Naught is wrong,” she
answered much too quickly, shaking her head, stubbornly denying him
the truth.

“
So I see,” Iain
replied.

She suddenly burst once more into tears,
concealing her face within her hands. “Oh, Iain!”

Iain went to her at once. Kneeling beside
her, he placed an arm about her sturdy shoulders. “Glenna,” he
whispered. “Naught could be so bad as all that! Tell me what’s
happened. I shall help to make it right.”

“
Nay!” she wailed
unhappily. “Ye canna!” She turned and thrust herself into his arms.
“’Tis done! Och, but naught will bring back the years!”

Confusion clouded his thoughts, robbed him
of response. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it was she was
speaking of, for she was speaking in riddles. “What is it that
canna be undone?” he persisted. For the first time in his life, it
seemed his wise aunt was making about as much sense as a
tenet-spouting prelate. He patted her back, consoling her. “Tell
me, Glenna,” he urged her. “Let me help you. What is it?”

“
Lagan!” she cried,
weeping all the more earnestly against his shoulder, soaking his
breacan. “He was here and we fought!”

“
O’er what?” Iain asked.
“Whatever it is, it canna possibly be so terrible that we canna
mend it together. Is that no’ what you always told me,
Glenna?”

He felt her nod against his shoulder.

“
What has he
done?”

“
Naught,” she cried
softly, rising to her feet and wiping her face with her sleeve.
“Naught as yet,” she clarified. “But I dunno what he’s going to do.
He’s so angry, Iain... and he loathes ye!” she
disclosed.

Iain’s brows lifted in stunned surprise. He
rocked backward upon his heels. “Me?”

Her expression was filled with sorrow. “Aye,
Iain, but he does!”

“
I dinna
understand.”

“
Oh, Iain,” she whispered
brokenly. “Iain, my love...” She shook her head and placed a hand
upon his shoulder. Her next words left him dumb. “Lagan isna your
cousin, ye see... he isna me son.”

“
Nay?” he asked, reeling
from the weight of her words. “Surely you jest?”

She shook her head. Fat tears rolled down
her cheeks.

His mind grasped her words, and his heart
believed her, for he knew well enough that she would never speak
but in truth. “But who then? Who is he?”

She reached out to touch his jaw, cradle his
chin. “Your brother,” she whispered.

The blow of her words to his mind was not
near as staggering as that to his heart. “Impossible!” he exclaimed
at once, his face screwing with disbelief.

“
Nay, but ‘tis true,” she
countered, her brows lifting. “Och, but, Iain, dinna ye
see?”

This moment he saw nothing. Nothing was
clear.

Nor could he think to speak.

“’
Twas no’ your birth that
took your dear mother’s life,” she told him, “but Lagan’s, instead,
love.” She nodded sadly, her eyes pooling once more with tears.
“Lagan is my sister’s son,” she avowed, her hand trembling upon his
face. “God forgive me, Iain, but I swear it on my soul! He is your
brother, in truth.”

chapter 31

The gathering darkness obscured his vision,
but Lagan scarce slowed his pace, even when the silhouette of a
small child darted out before them.