The MacKinnon’s gaze met her own over the boy’s shoulder, and Page’s heart tumbled within her breast.
She averted her gaze at once, uncomfortable with the emotions in peril of being revealed there.
Even once Lagan and Malcom left them, Page didn’t dare acknowledge the man who stood before her, watching her still.
And yet, neither could she keep her curiosity quelled. “What is it you said to please him so?” she asked, sounding uninterested, though her very question belied the fact.
He didn’t bother to answer until she lifted her face to his. “Malcom?”
Page nodded, mesmerized by the golden hue of his eyes. In the dusky light, burnished by the waning sun, they seemed almost translucent, angelic even. He was beautiful, in truth—a man she could only have dreamt of loving, for no man who looked as he did could ever want her in return.
It was a good thing she loathed him so … there was little danger in losing her heart to the darksome brute.
“He asked to go hunting.”
“And you let him?” Page surmised, somewhat surprised.
“Dinna let his sweet face fool you. My son is a capable hunter.” Page couldn’t help but hear the note of concern along with the pride in his voice. “Malcom’s wi’ his clansmen now, lass. No harm will come to him. My cousin Lagan will see to it.”
Her brows lifted. “Lagan? Lagan is your cousin?”
“Aye.”
Page averted her gaze once more. “I never would have guessed. The two of you seem so little alike.”
“Really?” he answered, narrowing his eyes at her. “Curious, that... I never would have taken ye for a Mary, either, but ‘tis Mary you are—is that no’ right?”
Page furrowed her brow. Did he not believe her?
Or was he simply making the point that she should not judge?
“Often things are no’ what they seem,” he disclosed.
Page’s heartbeat quickened. “And what is it you are trying to say, sir?”
“Merely that you dinna recall me to a Mary. The name doesna suit you.”
She released the breath she’d not realized she’d held. “Really,” she said, sounding bored, although she wanted more than anything to ask him what name he thought better suited her. Butt she didn’t dare. The last she wished was for him to discover her shame—nor did she care to return to elaborate upon the differences between him and his cousin.
What could she possibly say?
Certainly she wasn’t about to admit that he seemed the more kindly of the two. He was her gaoler, after all. How could she think him kind?
“I suggest you address the matter with my father if you do not care for the name. ’Twas his choice, after all,” she lied.
“Was it?” he said, and returned to tending his mount, without bothering to await her reply. Though it was as crude a dismissal as Page had ever received, she was silently grateful for the reprieve. At the instant, there was a breach in her armor much too wide to close, and she needed time to mend it.
Anger, she knew, was her refuge, and yet... though she tried... she couldn’t even summon a shred of ire for a man who showed such devotion to his son.
chapter 8
He’d managed to lure the others away, to hunt in some other remote part of these woods.
And Malcom... As expected, the boy had wandered away from them... straight into his waiting hands.
At long last, everything was going as planned. A plan that was far too long coming to fruition. A plan he’d thought to have fully realized six years earlier, when he’d driven Iain’s young wife mad with fear of her new husband and had fueled her with so much hatred for him that she’d preferred death to bearing his touch ever again.
It was only too bad she hadn’t committed the deed before giving birth to Iain’s brat.
And yet, it gave him some measure of satisfaction to know that his father’s clan thought lain her murderer, for lain had been the last to see her alive. He smiled at that, knowing his half brother would strangle with guilt over the memory until the day he died— well, mayhap that day would come sooner than expected.
Aye, mistakes had been made.
When King David had sought his aid in gaining custody of Iain’s son, in response to his own request for David’s favor, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to rid himself of Malcom. He’d only too soon realized that it accomplished naught. David’s intent had been merely to install the boy as a ward of the English court, far away, and safe even from him. Were anything to happen to Iain, Malcom would then be brought back to take his place as David’s poppet.
Nay, better that the boy was dead.
Aye, for it might be only a matter of time before Malcom gave him away, at any rate. The wee brat had awakened from his drugged slumber in the middle of the night, and he’d had to croon him to sleep. Och, but it had been a sour note he’d sung.