If she didn’t freeze to death first.
Or if she didn’t manage to escape.
She heard their voices long before she spied them and her stomach lurched as they came from the woods. The MacKinnon and the one called Lagan—the boor who had shoved the despicable rag into her mouth. They stood whispering beside the fire. Something else she could thank them for—setting her so far from the fire’s heat, as wet as she was, and leaving her to freeze in the chill night air! Thoughtless, infuriating barbaric wretches!
The firelight flickered between them, casting its copper tint against their bodies and faces, distorting their images. Caught between the eerie glow of the flame and the obscurity of shadow, the MacKinnon cut a daunting figure, to be sure. Dressed in a black woolen tunic and cloaked in his belted breacan, he stood at least six inches taller than her father in his thick leather-lined boots. In a leonine display of masculinity, his dark wavy mane was unbound and fell below his shoulders, and his stance was one bred of confidence. He was a man born to lead, she couldn’t help but cede.
Was he a murderer, as well?
The prospect made her throat tighten with renewed fear.
Her heart lurched. What would he do when he discovered her father wouldn’t deal with him?
She couldn’t even begin to make out their discourse, and then the one called Lagan left the MacKinnon’s side to jostle another man awake.
He whispered something into the man’s ear and the man rose at once, shaking off his slumber. Together the two spoke to the MacKinnon and then stumbled off into the shadowy realm beyond the fire’s brightness.
Only Page and the MacKinnon remained still awake.
Starting at the realization, Page turned to look at him and gasped to find him simply standing there, watching her, the firelight playing upon his face, making his harsh features appear all the harsher for the contrasting shadows. She prayed he couldn’t see her where she sat so far from the light, and was relieved when he turned and bent to retrieve something that lay beside the fire. Her relief was short-lived, however, for he pivoted suddenly and came toward her, and a shock of pure hysteria skittered through her.
Reacting instinctively, Page slammed her head backward against the tree trunk and swore a silent oath, closing her eyes, feigning sleep. Jesu, but she was being foolish! She knew it, and still couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t face him just now. She didn’t know why, she just couldn’t. Tears sprang to her eyes.
He values you? the ghost of his voice whispered in her ear, and the question tormented her. She had to remind herself he’d not spoken it aloud. ’Twas merely her imagination mocking her, making her the fool.
His footfall was light, but Page could make out the soft sound of moss surrendering beneath his leather-soled feet and knew the moment when he stood before her.
Bare limbed.
The thought accosted her from nowhere, and her heart gave a little start, beating faster as he crouched down beside her—at least she imagined he crouched. She could swear that he did, for she thought she felt the heat of his breath against her cheek.
A sigh blew across her face.
Or had she imagined it?
Merciful Lord, was he watching her so intently?
Nay... oh, nay...
Her heart began to flounder, and she tried not to panic, tried to pretend he wasn’t hovering so close, scrutinizing her every breath, but failed miserably. She knew that he was, and was only grateful for the veil of darkness to conceal her when she felt the telltale flush creep up from her breast, to her throat and face, warming her.
And then suddenly her heart slammed to a halt, for he touched her—sweet Mary, the way that he touched her.
Her breath left her, and her body quivered as his hand cupped her face, the gesture so much a tender caress. She leaned her face hungrily into the warmth of his palm, and then realized what she’d done, and her eyes flew wide. She drew in a breath, and lifted her face to his.
Their gazes met, held, locked.
He didn’t remove his hand, and Page, though startled by the embrace, could scarce protest with the rag still filling her mouth. Scarce could she breathe. Scarce could she think.
With a gentleness that belied his strength and size, he brushed his thumb across the hollow above her cheek, and Page closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears anew.
How inconceivable it was that this man, this stranger, her captor, would be the very first to touch her so gently?
“Dinna be weepin’,” he whispered.
Was she? Page nearly choked on her denial. She hadn’t even realized.
He removed the gag from her mouth and brought it to his nostrils. They flared at the stench and he glowered, tossing it away. She swallowed with difficulty. “Damn Lagan,” he grumbled, and shook his head in disgust.