The MacKinnon's Bride (39 page)

“
Malcom told me
everything. You’re a stouthearted lass,” he told her with pride. “I
believe we’ll make a fine Scotswoman oota ye yet.”

“
I’m sorry about Lagan,”
she whispered.

“’
Tis no fault o’ your
own,” he said, kissing the pate of her head.

“
Malcom?”

“
His heart is bruised, but
he’ll live,” Iain assured her.

“
And my
father?”

“
Aye, Page,” he answered.
“He’s come for ye... as ye always said he would.”

Page squeezed her eyes closed against his
breacan, reveling in the scent of the man who held her. She wasn’t
certain what it was she was feeling this moment, whether joy or
something else entirely—regret?—but she knew without a doubt who it
was who held her. Not her father.

“
By the blessed stone,
Iain MacKinnon... dinna be keepin’ us waitin’,” came a voice from
above. “D’ ye have the lassie, or nay?”

“
Are ye ready to face
him?” Iain whispered.

Page laughed softly and held him all the
more tightly. “Do I have a choice?” she asked him morosely. When
she left this embrace... would it be their last? “If I say nay, can
we stay here forever?”

He chuckled softly. “Och, but, lass, I
believe Angus may have somethin’ to say aboot that.”

“
Iain!” Angus shouted down
at them. “Come on now, lad! These auld arms canna hold ye burly
arse down there forever!”

“
See?” Iain asked her, and
he lifted his head from the embrace to shout his reply. “Aye,
Angus! Draw us up now, will ye!”

Page couldn’t help herself.

Some part of her suddenly wished she’d ended
upon the rocks below. While merely hours before, she’d never felt
more alive, more cherished, more complete, she now felt only an
overwhelming emptiness in her heart.

Jesu, but her father had come for her, after
all.

Iain was uncertain how to feel.

In the space of a single day he’d discovered
a brother, and then lost him. And in the course of the same day had
come near to losing his son and the woman he loved, as well.

Later he would sort out his feelings for the
brother he’d never claimed, and for the father who had denied them
both. For now, his son was safe with Glenna. But while Page was
safe from Lagan’s fate, he was now in danger of losing her yet
again. And this time he couldn’t simply sweep her out of harm’s
reach.

More than aught, he wanted
her to stay—and if she decided
’
twas her
heart’s desire to do so, then her father’s entourage along with
David of Scotia’s were not enough to prevail against
him.

And if she chose to go, it would be the
single most difficult thing he’d ever done, but Iain would let her.
Och, but he knew how important her father’s acceptance was to
her.

He could tell by the way she clung to him
that she was afeared. He gave her ribs a squeeze when they neared
the bluff top, and then handed her up into waiting arms. Kerwyn and
Kermichil together hauled her up and onto her feet. And then with
Angus’s help, Iain climbed over the cliff edge, as well.

She looked so like a child standing there by
the moonlight that Iain’s heart wrenched for her. He knew this
moment was difficult for her, and he wanted so much to whisk her
away from her bastard sire, and keep her always from harm.

He couldn’t do that, though. He knew that as
well as she, and he was proud of her when she went to FitzSimon and
stood before him. There were no embraces between them, but then
Iain hadn’t expected any.

He could scarce bear the thought of her
leaving with her father. It wrenched at his gut, but he knew he
wouldn’t stop her. He wanted her to be happy. And Christ, if that
meant she would leave him, so be it.

Though it seemed impossible to restrain
himself, he did so, remaining behind her at a safe distance—safe
for him, because he wanted to lunge at FitzSimon’s throat and
murder the bastard where he stood.

“
I’ve come to take you
home, daughter.”

Page could scarce speak, so overwhelmed was
she with conflicting emotions.

How long had she waited for her father to
call her “daughter?”

An eternity too long.

And now he was here, speaking the words
she’d so longed to hear, and all she wished to do was to slap his
face! Aye, some part of her wanted to fall to his feet and thank
him profusely, but some other wicked part of her wanted to deny him
as he had done so long to her.

She straightened her spine and lifted her
chin, demanding of him, “Why?” It was her right to know why he
should change his mind. She wanted to believe he’d had a change of
heart, but it was more like to be that he’d finally found some use
for her.

He peered at the ground a long moment, and
then again met her gaze. “The truth?”

“
Aye,” Page answered. “The
truth.”

“
I did not believe you
were my daughter. I thought you were Henry’s bastard, conceived by
my wife.”

Her brow furrowed. God’s truth, she should
have been shocked by his revelation, but wasn’t. “I see,” she said,
and tried to find some comfort in his explanation. She found it
only angered her all the more. “And now?”

“
Your mother is long dead.
I cannot make it up to her.”

Page stood silent, listening.

“
I never believed her,
Page... but I confronted Henry at long last... when he came to take
the boy. He swears to me that your mother was pure, and he never
had carnal knowledge of her. I never believed her,” he said again.
“And I took it out upon you. For that, daughter, you have my
deepest regrets.”

Regrets? For a lifetime of disregard? For
casting her mother away for a sin she hadn’t committed?

Page remained silent.

“
I just could not see what
she could possibly want with me when she had England’s king
enamored of her, instead. I drove her away, Page. But I’ll make it
up to you—I swear it! I shall find you a fitting spouse, and make
you the lady you deserve to be!”

Page’s eyes welled with tears. He was saying
the things she’d so longed to hear. As a child. What she would have
given to hear them spoken then...

At this moment... they merely confused her.
She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to do... nor did she
seem to have a choice. Iain and his people had been generous enough
to take her in, had embraced her these last days like one of their
own... but only because her father had not wanted her.

And here he was, her father, willing and
ready to take her home, it seemed.

“
The MacKinnon’s bride is
a lady!” someone suddenly proclaimed. Page turned and spied Broc
stepping forward from the gathered crowd, his stance battle-ready.
His expression, though obscured by the night’s shadows, was
unmistakably angry and full of challenge. She wasn’t certain which
she was more shocked by... the fact that he had claimed her as the
MacKinnon’s bride, or that he’d come forward to defend
her.

Her brows knit suddenly, as the reason for
his indignation filtered through her. Jesu! Why hadn’t she caught
the slur in her father’s words? She was a lady, indeed!

“
Bride?” her father asked,
oblivious to his own offense. “My daughter is no bride to this
man!” His tone was contemptuous. “She will have better than a
savage Scot!”

“
Aye,” Angus argued,
stepping forward, as well. “I say she is the MacKinnon’s
bride!”

“
Aye,” came a cacophony of
voices from the gathered crowd. “She’s the MacKinnon’s bride!” and
“She’s the MacKinnon’s bride, all right!”

Page could scarcely believe her eyes and
ears.

“
Is this true?” came a
voice from the shadows.

Page searched out the speaker and found it
belonged to a man still mounted upon horseback. He’d been watching
quietly from a distance, and now seemed to be peering straight at
her, waiting for her response... Nay, not her... She suddenly
realized he was looking past her. She peered over her shoulder and
found Iain standing guard at her back. He said nothing, seemed to
be scrutinizing her, his eyes seeing only her, ignoring the
surrounding crowd.

“
My daughter is no bride
to this barbarian!” her father contended. “He stole her from me,
and I would have her returned!”

Stole. Returned. The words leapt out at her
from her father’s tirade.

Her gaze snapped back to meet her father’s
angry glare.

FitzSimon turned to regard the man on
horseback. “I demand you command him to release her at once!”

“
You demand?” the man
asked from his vantage in the shadows.

“
I did not come all this
way to leave empty- handed,” her father raved. “Release her to me,
or—”

“
Or what?” the man on
horseback asked.

“
Or I—”

“
Iain MacKinnon?” the
horseman asked, dismissing her father suddenly. “What say you to
this? Is this woman your bride or nay?”

Page braced herself for his reply. She
closed her eyes.

“
Why do you not ask my
lady?” he suggested.

Page turned to look at him in shock. He
merely smiled at her, saying nothing. He nodded, urging her to
answer the inquiry. And in that instant she understood love in its
purest form. It was unveiled to her as it never had been
before.

Her decision was clear: Choose a father who
never once acknowledged her—cared so little that he never even
bothered to give her a name—or choose a man with compassion enough
that he would risk her anger to offer her one? Choose the one who
rebuffed her though she was flesh and blood to him, or he who chose
to take her into his fold, despite that she was a sour-mouthed
wench and caused him more trouble than he’d ever bargained for? She
smiled at the memory. He hadn’t wanted her. She’d been cast into
his unwilling hands, and yet he’d not turned her away.

She turned to meet her father’s eyes.

“
Tell him, Page!” her
father barked at her.

Nor, Page realized in that moment, had it
been her father who had risked himself to deliver her from the jaws
of death. It had been Iain’s arms that had borne her to safety.

And it was Iain now who loved her enough to
give her a choice.

“
What say you, lass?” the
horseman asked her.

She had no notion who he might be, but knew
instinctively that he was someone of consequence. Even Iain, while
not overly obsequious, seemed to defer to him. King David? It would
make sense, Page thought, for her father would have gone to him for
safe passage into the Highlands. Either David or Henry. But only
David could ride with so few into these people’s midst, and only a
Scotsman would dare.

She turned again to address Iain, needing to
know if he meant it true. He seemed to understand her silent plea,
and she never needed to utter a word. He nodded, urging her to
speak.

Page met her father’s gaze once more and
lifted her chin. Her lips curved into a smile as she declared, “I
am.”

“
You are what?” her father
snapped.

“
The MacKinnon’s bride,”
she said almost too softly to be heard.

“
Nay! He’s forcing her!”
her father declared, turning to address the horseman. “Did you see
that?”

Page met David of Scotland’s gaze, lifting
her chin determinedly. “No one forces me,” she assured him, her
voice stronger.

“
Speak it louder, Page,”
Iain whispered at her back, and her heart flowered with joy as
she’d never known before.

A smile burst upon her lips. “I am the
MacKinnon’s bride!” she all but shouted.

All at once, a shout rang out. In unison,
the clansmen cheered. Page felt her heart swell, until it seemed as
though it would burst.

The horseman looked past her once more to
Iain. “Is this true?”

Silence fell again. Iain stepped forward
then, placing his arms about her in a protective embrace.
“Aye.”

“
Well, then, FitzSimon,”
the horseman declared. “It seems to me your daughter is, in fact,
the MacKinnon’s bride.”

Once again cheers rang out, and Page was
scarce aware of the tirade her father began, nor even the quarrel
between him and the horseman, nor the angry shouts of the MacKinnon
men as they demanded he leave. She was aware only of the man at her
back. She scarce knew it when her father stalked away and mounted
his horse in anger. He spouted curses as he hied away, followed by
an unsympathetic band of Scotsmen.

“
You’ve not heard the last
of this,” her father declared. “I will demand
satisfaction!”

Page giggled softly. “He will, you realize,”
she warned Iain. “He does not like to be thwarted.”

“
So ye told me once
before,” he reminded her. “I dinna think he’ll be back,” he assured
her. “Look at them,” he urged her. “Ye’ve wormed your way into my
people’s hearts—sassy- mouthed wench that ye are! If he comes back,
they’ll flay him alive.”

Page chuckled at his choice of words,
remembering she’d said something of the same to him some time ago.
Following his gaze to the angry horde of Scotsmen chasing her
father from their land, shouting curses and threats at his back,
she giggled at the sight of them. Some part of her was sad to see
her father “go, for he was her father, after all, but the greater
part of her felt only relief.

“
I love ye, lass,” Iain
whispered in her ear, tightening the embrace. “Och, I’ve somethin’
for you,” he revealed, releasing her suddenly. He searched through
the folds of his breacan and drew something from it. Embracing her
once more from behind, he offered her the battered remains of a
yellow crocus. Her yellow crocus. The one she’d discarded in anger.
He’d somehow found it, and saved it for her. “The moment I laid ye
down upon that bed o’ blossoms,” he told her, “I considered ye
mine. But I wanted to hear from your own lips that ye considered me
yours.”