It had been years since Page had chewed her nails, but she sat gnawing them now, watching the one called Ranald pace the ground before her. To the contrary, Ranald seemed not to notice her at all, and she might have tried to steal away already, save that when she dared to move from her spot by the tree, he turned to growl at her like a mongrel dog protecting his bone.
God’s truth, Page had never kicked a dog before—never even been inclined to—rather had smuggled them within her room, instead, to feed them scraps she’d purloined from the table, but she certainly felt like kicking Ranald right now. Like his laird, he was an overbearing brute!
She wondered whether the MacKinnon had met with her father as yet—worried what her father would say.
Most of all she dreaded facing him.
The MacKinnon, that was, not her father.
She had a suspicion she might never set eyes upon her father again.
But that wasn’t what troubled her most.
Unreasonably, the desperation she felt to escape stemmed less from the fact that she longed to go home, and more from the fact that she was wholly and justly humiliated over having to face the MacKinnon. She’d spoken pridefully, and threatened fallaciously, and as soon as he spoke with her father he would know it for what it was.
Why did she care what he thought of her?
Would he laugh in her face? Mock her? Pity her?
She didn’t think she could bear it—anything would be better than his pity. Her eyes stung at the merest notion.
Confusing, arrogant Scot!
Why had he shown her any consideration?
It would have been so much easier had he shown her cruelty, instead. Jesu! That, she might have dealt with! She might have gritted her teeth and borne it. But pity was another matter entirely.
Why did he have to go and call her lass as though he cared?
His tone when he had addressed her made her feel... she wasn’t certain how it made her feel. She only knew that the thrill she experienced when he spoke the endearment—it certainly sounded an endearment—didn’t begin to eclipse the despair.
Somehow, in the space of a single night, he’d managed to rip open every wound she’d healed throughout the years.
Both she and Ranald heard the approaching hooves at the same time.
Ranald quit his pacing to face his clan as they emerged through the trees into the little copse. Page’s heart vaulted into her throat. Hot tears, though she tried to suppress them, burned at her eyes. She didn’t dare stand—felt, instead, like burrowing a den deep in the ground and hiding within it for the rest of her given days. She shouldn’t care, and told herself she didn’t care, but she knew very well it was a bloody lie. Somehow, she cared very much what the MacKinnon thought of her.
The one called Lagan emerged first, waving his hand and speaking his Scots tongue fervidly, and Page had no inkling what he was saying. In truth, she couldn’t particularly tell whether he was furious or gleeful, for his expressions were mixed. A few men straggled into the copse behind him; they, too, spoke excitedly.
And then came the MacKinnon, and Page understood at once.
Her emotions rose to choke her, and her tears began to course down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop them, for the MacKinnon’s son rode before him.
Her father had dealt with them!
He wanted her back!
Her stomach surged and she was so relieved, she thought she might be sick. Swiping the wetness from her cheeks, Page rose to her feet to face the MacKinnon, emotional laughter bubbling up from the depths of her.
Her father wanted her back!
She felt invulnerable with that knowledge, warmed like never before, exhilarated, as if she were soaring to the heights of Heaven with her joy.
Until the MacKinnon’s gaze turned upon her.
The look he cast her sent a frisson racing down her spine. His stance was rigid in the saddle, the muscle in his jaw ticked, and his amber-gold eyes pierced her as surely as a Welshman’s arrow. God help her, she couldn’t have torn her gaze away had she tried.
She’d been weeping.
Inexplicable anger mounted within Iain.
Damn, but she wasn’t his concern.
The best he could do was release her and be along his merry way.
So why did he feel like pivoting his mount about, calling her father down, and running his blade through the bastard’s black heart?
The moment she’d spied Malcom sitting before him, her eyes lit with joy. Not a trace of avenging pride. And relief, he spied relief there, as well. His heart squeezed painfully, for it occurred to him, then, just what it was she thought. She assumed her father had bargained for her return.
Worthless bastard. He should have bargained for her return!
He didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
How could he tell her that her whoreson father had given her the greatest insult? That he couldn’t have cared one whit what was done to her now—and that he certainly hadn’t wished her return? Christ, that he’d sworn, even, to rip out her tongue? What manner of father was that?