The MacKinnon’s Bride(23)

“I asked you not to—”

“I know, wench. Ye dinna wish for me to call you ‘lass, but you havena said what then I should call—”

“My name is none of your concern!” she assured.

He smiled then, flashing perfect white teeth. “Verra well, lass. If you will, then.”

“Mary!” she lied, trying not to note the boyish dimple that had appeared, as well. “My name is Mary!” She turned around, averting her gaze, more than a little rattled by his too easy manner.

Wasn’t her abductor supposed to be cruel with his words rather than winning? Why should he care over her comforts, or her preferences, for that matter? “Are you pleased now?” she asked him. “You can bloody well call me Mary!”





chapter 7





Of all the names she might have spouted, Mairi was the last one he expected. He’d been unprepared for the sound of it upon her lips.

Bloody hell, nothing else she might have said could have spurred him into silence more swiftly. He’d been determined to melt the icy walls surrounding her, win her over to his people. The last thing they needed was a bitter wench to burden them. They’d already had one of those to contend with.

Mairi.

Even these six years later, they were all still reeling with the legacy she’d left them.

What would he tell Malcom on the day his son should ask of his mother’s death?

He didn’t know. But Iain wasn’t certain he could ever speak of it, for the memory of that morning tormented him more than anything in his life. He could scarce think of that high window without suffering a sweat and his knees turning as soft as boiled meal.

His wife had loathed him so much.

Even Malcom hadn’t been enough to keep her.

Sweat beaded upon his forehead. He closed his eyes, warding away the image of her standing before the high window. The vision passed before his eyes in a flash of white-hot pain.

Mairi.

He wasn’t certain he could call the lass by that name. He couldn’t even bear to think of her as such. The very thought of the name wrenched at his gut.

He opened his eyes and sought out his son, focusing upon the future, not the past. The sight of Malcom, his soft golden hair shining under the sun, laughing and talking with his cousin, comforted Iain at once. He allowed the issue of her name to pass for now, and lapsed into silence along with her, more than aware of the glances he was receiving from his men.

They were trying to understand, he knew. He’d shocked the hell out of them with his lies about her father’s intentions, but it couldn’t be helped. At the first opportunity he would explain... what? His brows drew together into a frown. God’s teeth, but what would he explain? He wasn’t even certain he understood it himself. That he’d been driven to the lie? That he couldn’t bear to hurt her? That something about the beautiful, contentious, troublesome wench sitting so stiffly before him brought out a fierce protectiveness in him... something apart from the lust she aroused in him?

Christ, but he found himself wondering if, in truth, she’d been championing his son last eve rather than herself. He thought it might have been both, for behind her bluster, Iain feared she masked a lifetime of her father’s scorn. A lifetime of trying to please the unpleasable. He sensed in her the same hunger, the same hopes and the same fears that he’d once harbored himself for Mairi’s favor.

All for naught.

He could scarce bear to be the one to deal the lass another blow.

She roused in him so many inexplicable emotions, such irrational yearnings. Like the one he felt now to undo the plait in her hair and comb through the soft strands with his fingers until they were silk in his callused hands. He wanted to see the play of sunlight upon her hair—somehow knew it would be splendid. In the noonday light, her brown color turned the shade of fire-lit henna.

And, God, her scent... sunshine and verdure... the freshness of mountain mist on a day when the heather was in high bloom. Like a wolf scenting his mate, it was all he could do not to bury his face into the crook of her neck and breathe the essence of her into his lungs.

Christ, but he needed to think of other things—needed to get her away from him, somehow. His eyes lifted, scanning the cavalcade for his son once more. He needed to speak with Malcom, needed to hold his son, and yet here he sat, playing nursemaid to a fork-tongued wench instead. He frowned at the thought of her riding with someone else, anyone else, and cursed himself for being an unreasonable arse.

Why should he care whether she affected another man the way she affected him? She wasn’t his woman, after all—nor did he desire her to be.

Bedamned, he could be wounded by a wit so cutting as hers!