The MacKinnon’s Bride(108)
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.”
Page was too overwhelmed to speak. “I am.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I do,” she cried softly.