She wasn’t his concern, Iain told himself.
And with that decided, he set Broc to guard her, and anticipated Lagan’s and Ranald’s return, pacing as he waited, all the while aware of the dagger looks FitzSimon’s daughter cast at his back. He dismissed her for the time being, anxious for the bargain to be put forth.
It wasn’t long before his cousin returned—without news of Henry’s camp. It mattered not, Iain assured himself, he wouldn’t need it. ’Twas a simple enough trade—the man’s gaddamned daughter for his son!
So why did he have a sense of doom creeping through his bones?
Something wasn’t right.
He gathered the men he would ride with, leaving only Ranald to watch over FitzSimon’s daughter. The greater their numbers, he reasoned, the better it would go for them. But he couldn’t quite dispel the sense of unease slithering through him.
Nor could he banish FitzSimon’s daughter from his thoughts.
Even as he awaited FitzSimon’s emergence upon the battlements, her expression continued to haunt him. He kept seeing her face as he’d left her, proud but glum.
Something plagued him... something, though he could not put a finger to it as yet.
The bastard was taking too long.
Although Iain remained mounted, some crazed part of him paced before the barbican gates, shouting obscenities and rattling the damnable portcullis. God, he wanted his son back! He was desperate to have Malcom back.
And he was close—so close, and yet...
The man had been disinclined to meet face-to-face. He would, instead, hide behind stone walls and the bows of his men.
Nor did he appear much in a hurry to show himself.
Not the mark of a man who held great affection for his daughter and desired her return at any cost.
The realization lifted the hairs upon Iain’s nape, and he found himself heartily glad for the slip of the lass’s tongue. Though Lagan and Angus had scoured the area all night for the English camp, to no avail, the information might still work to his advantage—provided she’d spoken the truth and King Henry was, in fact, due.
Finally, when FitzSimon deigned to appear, Iain thought the man arrogant and unmoved. For one whose daughter had strayed into enemy hands, he reacted with too little concern over the news. Iain braced himself for the man’s dubiety, telling himself that he might react the same without ample proof—perhaps he’d taken so long in showing himself because he’d been searching for his daughter within. With a wordless gesture, he demanded the lass’s shoe from auld Angus. Angus complied at once, spurring his mount forward to hand it over. Seizing it, Iain prepared to fling it up into the ramparts. FitzSimon’s declaration arrested his hand.
“So you have her, and what?” The older man shrugged, bracing his hands imperiously upon his hips. “What is it you wish of me, MacKinnon?”
It took Iain a full moment to comprehend the import of the question. Like the instant Mairi had flung herself from their chamber window, he felt helpless and momentarily unhinged. He could feel Malcom wrenched away suddenly, the possibility of his return dwindling, and the sensation was almost physical. He tempered himself, knowing his emotion would only get in the way now. There would be time enough to feel once he held Malcom within his embrace once more.
“My son for your daughter, FitzSimon!” Iain proffered, disposing with ceremony. He flung up the shoe.
FitzSimon didn’t bother to catch it, merely eyed it disdainfully as it fell behind the rampart wall, unclaimed at his feet. He laughed suddenly, uproariously, his belly heaving with the effort. “God’s breath, man! What need have I of that brat?” he asked, and shook his head. “I’ve sons aplenty and the means to forge myself more!” He smacked his belly in a gesture of beneficence. “Take her if it please you, MacKinnon. I shall be keeping the boy, I think. I’m not witless enough to risk Henry’s wrath over a bothersome wench—daughter of mine though she may be!”
Iain could scarce believe his ears. Stupefied by the hard-hearted pronouncement, he apprised the man, “Refuse me, FitziSimon, and your daughter willna live to see the gloamin’!”
FitzSimon grinned down at him. “Really? Well, then...” He turned to leave, unmoved by the threat. “Have yourself a pleasant journey home,” he concluded, and chortled once more. Speaking low to his men, he dismissed Iain, once and for all.
Iain’s destrier pranced beneath him, snorting in protest to the tensions in his body, and he eased the pressure of his knees, giving the animal respite. The feeling of foreboding was at once resolved, as the lass’s words came back to him: I wonder, would you do the same for a daughter? she’d asked.