But he didn’t wholly trust his men not to tell her the truth.
Nay, he resolved, until he could speak to them privately, and until he had the opportunity to think of what he would say to them—to her—she would continue to ride with him. Malcom would be well enough riding with Lagan for the time being. It was enough, for now, to know he was safe.
They continued on in silence, and when the lass seemed to waver a little before him, Iain drew her back against him once more, smiling over her indomitable will.
Stubborn wench.
This time she didn’t resist him. She went slack against him and blew a spent breath. Iain smiled, for he knew that somehow she’d managed to fall asleep sitting straight in the saddle. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and he was surprised she’d lasted so long. He allowed her to nap well into the afternoon, all the while trying not to think about how good it felt to hold the woman in his arms, how right it felt to protect her.
It had been so long.
So bloody long.
“Wake up, lass!”
Page awoke to an insistent whisper.
“Mary!”
A strange woman’s name, but whispered in her ear... and she recalled groggily that she’d given the name instead of her own. Her eyes flew open and she peered up into eyes that were the color of the Scots’ uisge beatha, their renowned water of life. Her father had favored it well. They were the color of sunlit amber, and they were staring down at her intently.
Frowning.
“Mary?” he said, his brow lifting a little, and it seemed somehow a question.
Page sat at once, shaking off her slumber, and snapped a curt “I’m fine.” She shrugged free of his unwelcome support, and edged forward until he released her. She noticed, then, that they were the last to remain mounted. It was dusk and the rest of the band was already busy making camp for the night. Jesu! It seemed she’d only just closed her eyes. Certainly she’d not meant to sleep. “Where are we?” she asked, turning to look at him, a little disoriented.
He was still scowling at her, watching her keenly. “‘Tis where we’ll stop for the night,” he said only, with narrowed eyes. “Does it suit you... Mary?”
Page thought it seemed he took offense to the name she’d given him, though, for the life of her, she couldn’t comprehend why. She thought about the name a moment, and in her drowsy state couldn’t account for his reaction. “‘Tis a perfectly suitable name,” she assured him. One, even, that she might have liked for herself. Her brows knit as she contemplated the source of his displeasure.
“Aye,” he agreed, though he was still frowning, and he said nothing more as he dismounted and seized her from the saddle, without even bothering to ask her whether she needed his assistance.
She would have liked to send him flying to perdition.
But she was too exhausted to fight at the moment, and so she merely sat upon a rotting log to watch the lot of them settle in for the evening. It wasn’t long before the one called Lagan sauntered toward them, young Malcom tripping at his heels. With a rush and a squeal, the boy flung himself upon his father’s back.
Page cringed in anticipation of the MacKinnon’s reaction.
Bellowing in surprise, the MacKinnon swung an arm about to catch his son by the waist and drag him around before him. He knelt and hugged the boy fiercely, laughing uproariously as he then ruffled his fine hair.
Page sat, gaping in wonder at the sight of the two of them together.
The boy who would speak naught for so long stood chattering with his father in their incomprehensible tongue, and although Page understood next to nothing of their discourse, she understood the essence of it all. Some part of her sighed with relief that his father did not rebuff him. The greater part of her quailed under an onslaught of emotions: envy, sorrow, a yearning so deep, it made her heart feel like a vast, echoing cavern— and then shame that she would begrudge the boy his father’s affection.
Nay, but she was elated for Malcom. She wouldn’t wish her misery upon any child, not even her enemy’s, and still, inexplicably, it pained her to see the affection between them.
Watching them, it was more than evident that the MacKinnon valued his son. One need only spy the two together to know it was true. The MacKinnon’s smile was stunning in its brilliance, and his golden eyes flashed with joy as he listened to his son gibber on—pleading, it seemed.
What might it feel like to be the recipient of such undivided attention? Such undeniable affection?
Page sighed with longing, her heart swelling with tenderness for a father who would love his child so openly.
The MacKinnon peered up at Lagan, offered a clip directive, and Lagan nodded, placing a hand to the MacKinnon’s shoulder in assurance. Whatever he said must have pleased Malcom immensely, for the boy threw his arms about his father’s neck once again and squealed with glee.