The MacKinnon’s Bride(18)

FitzSimon yielded to another outburst of temper, cursing the Scots, cursing the fates, cursing David of Scotland for placing him in such an untenable position by calling upon his favor. He conferred with his men and then turned to address Iain. “Very well, I’ll send down the boy. Take the witless bugger and be gone!” He turned at once, not bothering to await Iain’s response, and spoke to one of his men, then vanished from the ramparts. Though it seemed an eternity, it wasn’t long before the portcullis was raised. Iain’s heart hammered fiercely as he dismounted and began to walk toward the opening gates.

“Wait, laird!” Dougal called out. “It could be a ruse!”

Iain couldn’t have stopped himself had he tried.

He didn’t spot Malcom at first, hidden as he was behind the guard who preceded him, but when his little head peeked about the guard’s massive frame, Iain thought his heart would burst with joy and relief. Malcom squealed and began to run toward him, and Iain lost all restraint in that instant and began to run as well. His son leapt up into his arms with a joyous cry, and Iain embraced him unashamedly. “Whelp!” he said hoarsely, and buried his face against his son’s stout little shoulder. “Malcom, Malcom!”

“I knew you would come, da! I knew you would come!” Malcom snuggled against him. “I didna cry,” he declared proudly. “I didna tell them anythin’! I swear, I didna!”

Iain laughed softly. “So I’ve heard, whelp. So you didna!”

He was vaguely aware of the gates being closed against them, and then the portcullis being lowered as Malcom clung to him. “I knew you’d come,” Malcom said again, and began to weep a child’s tears. Iain braced the boy’s head against his shoulder, comforting him, restraining his own raging emotions. “I’m goin’ to take you home, son,” he swore, his voice breaking.

“How very moving,” FitzSimon declared from the ramparts above, his tone full of rancor. “Now take your bastard and go, MacKinnon!”

Iain hung his head back, peering up into the ramparts to meet FitzSimon’s gaze. “Aye,” he agreed. “You’ve kept your end o’ the bargain, FitzSimon, and now I’ll keep mine. Your daughter will be returned to you within the hour.”

“Nay!” FitzSimon shook his head vehemently. “Keep the bloody bitch!”

Iain was struck entirely dumb. Surely he didn’t mean that... He was but angry...

“If you return her to me,” FitzSimon swore,

“I’ll rip out her traitorous tongue for her betrayal!”

Iain held his son in stunned disbelief. “I have no need of the lass,” he returned. “Surely you cannot mean...”

“Keep her, or kill her!” FitzSimon declared. “I care not which—only get her the hell out of my sight!” And then he withdrew, ending the discourse, once and for all, leaving Iain and his men to stare after him in shock.





chapter 5





The men seemed unsettled as they rode from the castle.

Iain knew they were both excited and relieved about Malcom’s return, but they must have sensed his mood, for they remained reserved, waiting their turn to welcome Malcom back into the fold.

Iain was confused.

It didn’t matter that the hostage awaiting them wasn’t one of their own clan members, he anticipated her pain and sorrow just the same, and found himself angered on her behalf. Uncharacteristically, his son clung to his back, accepting the men’s good-natured ribbing and their welcome pats with subdued good cheer. Iain was scarce aware of the men’s comings and goings. Try as he might, he couldn’t forget the lass’s prideful boasts.

She’d seemed so very certain.

Or had she?

Of course he values me... I am his daughter, am I not?

She hadn’t appeared so certain, then, and he had wondered...

Have you changed your mind... decided you cannot part with me, after all...

Christ, but she wasn’t his concern.

Surely her father would not carry out his threat if he returned her.

She was his daughter, after all, his flesh and blood. He was but angry. And determining so, he reached back to seize Malcom about the waist. He brought his son around to sit before him, inspecting him. His men drifted away, affording them privacy. Malcom giggled softly and latched on to him again, seeming afeared to release him lest he vanish from sight. Iain’s heart squeezed within his chest.

“I’ve missed you, whelp,” he said affectionately, tousling Malcom’s fine golden hair. He had to restrain himself from beginning an interrogation then and there. More than aught, he wished to discover the name of the traitor, to ask how he’d been treated, to assure him it would never happen again, but now was not the time, he knew. All that mattered at the moment was that Malcom was safe—damned if he’d allow anything to part them ever again. Nay, he would question Malcom later, when his son felt himself secure once more... when FitzSimon’s daughter was no longer his bloody concern.