The MacKinnon’s Bride(11)
Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, but it wouldn’t have mattered, she wouldn’t have known what to say.
So near, his face lost none of its masculine beauty.
It held her mesmerized.
He seemed so young to lead, she thought, despite that his hair proclaimed elsewise; dark as it was, the shock of white at his temples stood out distinctly against the black of his hair. It was braided, she noticed for the first time—the silver at his temples. How old was he? His youthful face declared six and twenty, no more, but his hair bespoke some two score years and more. His cheekbones were high, his nose perfectly aquiline, and his lips... his lips were the sort to make a woman fancy stolen kisses. And his eyes... she still couldn’t make out their color in the darkness, though she tried.
Her heart beat a steady rhythm in her ears.
“Ye’ve my word, lass, that ye’ll no’ be harmed.” His voice was low and husky. “Dinna look so woeful.”
He stroked her cheek, and confusion flooded her. Why was he being so gentle? Jesu, but she didn’t know how to deal with this!
Page jerked her face away from his touch. “I—I was not!”
He arched a brow. “Weeping?”
He lifted his hand abruptly and Page flinched, thinking he meant to strike her for the denial, but he brought his thumb to his lips, instead, sinking his teeth there. Watching her, he sucked the salt of her tears from his flesh. “Were ye no’, lass?”
A shiver coursed through her at his gesture—the way that he addressed her—the way he continued to stare. She tried to ignore the heat that suffused her under his scrutiny, taking refuge in her anger. “No. I was not!”
“Nay,” he agreed, still suckling at his thumb. “Of course not. You’re much too... fearless. Are ye no’?”
He suckled his thumb an instant longer, then withdrew it from his mouth, and Page lapped at her lips gone suddenly dry. She swallowed convulsively.
“Still... ye’ve my word... ye’ll no’ be harmed.”
Page closed her eyes, trying to blot out the image of him kneeling before her. “How gracious,” she drawled, concealing a quiver. She opened her eyes once more, narrowing them, and her voice was steadier with anger. “In the meantime, my hands are bruising at my back!”
His lips hinted at a smile—the rogue—a smile that snatched her breath away and made her heart flitter wildly. Jesu, it should have made her yearn to slap his face instead! God curse him for that! And her, too, for allowing herself to lose her composure over a comely face!
Her wits were addled for certain!
“Some things are necessary,” he told her without the slightest trace of remorse, “but verra well, I’ll grant ye a moment’s respite.” He fell back upon his rump and reached behind her to free her hands.
“How generous... for a heathen Scot!”
He merely chuckled at that, and it multiplied her confusion tenfold. What was wrong with the fool? Did he not realize he was supposed to be angered by her quips? Page wasn’t certain what to make of him—less so by the instant.
He released her hands, and then slipped his fingers across the small of her back. She squealed in alarm, arching away from his touch. “What!” she shrieked, “do you think you are doing?”
He didn’t bother to beg her pardon, nor to remove his hand. It burned her flesh even through her shift.
“You’re wet,” he announced.
“Am I really?” She recovered her composure and glared at him vengefully. “How peculiar! I wonder if ‘tis because you abducted me wet from my swim... refused to allow me to dry... and then thrust me away in a damp corner far from the heat of the fire.”
She tried to shrug away from his touch, to no avail. “Remove your hand from my person this instant!”
His brows drew together, though his eyes glinted with unconcealed amusement. “You’re an impudent wench,” he said, with too little heat, but he complied at once. “Did your da beat you oft?”
Once again Page found herself aggrieved by his question. “Nay!” she countered, but she swallowed the ache that rose like a goose egg in her throat. In truth, her father hadn’t cared enough even for that. She averted her gaze. “How dare you speak of him so!” she mustered herself to say. “My father... he would never...” She rubbed at her wrists, trying to ease the pain that flowed into them.
Naught could ease the ache in her heart.
“Well, then, mayhap he should have...”
Page glared at him.
“Let me see your hands.”
It was a command, no matter that it was spoken so softly, and Page bristled. “I can see to them myself, thank you!”