The MacKinnon’s Bride(27)

How could they expect her to sleep like this each night? All night! Surely they wouldn’t yet again?

And the MacKinnon... he hadn’t bothered even to acknowledge her since plucking her from his mount. He’d been preoccupied since the hunting party had returned. Lagan had spoken to him briefly, and ever since he’d been in a fit of fury over something—something the boy had done perchance, for he went to Malcom at once and spoke to him sternly, sitting the boy down before him while they supped, and eyeing him reprovingly. Malcom, for his part, appeared suitably repentant. He sat before his father, sulking, until even his papa took pity and patted his head. The boy threw himself into his father’s arms then, and squeezed fervently, his little arms scarce able to reach about the MacKinnon’s broad chest..

Page found herself staring, unable to keep herself from it.

Jesu, but he was a fine specimen—his shoulders broad and well muscled, his body well formed. He appeared to be a man unafraid of strenuous labor, and his body evidenced that fact. She imagined him toiling alongside his kinsmen, with the sweltering sun upon his back. As first she’d thought, his skin was swarthy. His dark hair was striking, and the white hair at his temples was nothing less than startling in contrast to the color of his skin and his youthful features. She wondered again how old he was.

She wished Cora were here. Born in the Lowlands of Scotia, Cora was the daughter of her father’s new leman. She’d impressed Page with her command of both the Highland and the English tongues. She was also the first and only friend Page had ever had. Cora would know what they were saying. As it was, Page could only make out that Malcom “wouldn’t do it again.” But what it was he was promising not to do again, she couldn’t begin to decipher.

She watched them together, the way the MacKinnon swept the hair from his son’s eyes, and found herself wistful.

God’s truth, but it was a glorious sight to behold... father and son

Would that her father had been so gentle after a reprimanding. She’d have given much for him to look at her just so... if only once. She sighed then, for she might have simply wished he’d been so gentle in his rebuking of her as the MacKinnon had been with his son. But he hadn’t been, and she couldn’t turn back time.

There was no sense in weeping over it now.

It was only that … now, at last, when her father revealed some glimmer of affection for her—he’d risked Henry’s wrath in bartering for her freedom and that had to count for something—MacKinnon stole the chance from her.

“Och, but ye could set a mon to flames wi’ that glower, lass.”

Startled, Page’s gaze shot upward to find the old man, Angus, standing over her, arms akimbo as he watched her. She turned her glower upon him then. “Would that I could,” she remarked. “Do you not have something better to do than to ogle me, sir?”

He further vexed her by simply chuckling at her question.

“Prithee, I see little humor in this!” Page hissed at him.

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Aye, but there’s humor to be seen, for certain, lass,” he returned cryptically.

Page considered kicking the old man, but doubted she could reach him from where she sat bound. “Why can you not set me free?” she protested, jerking at the ties that bound her wrists. “Why must I remain bound to this accursed tree? What have you to fear of me?”

The old man scratched at his beard and shook his head. “Well, I dunno,” he admitted, and proceeded to sit down beside her. He leaned over to whisper, “We’ve been wondering the same thing ourselves, ye see.” He lifted his brows and nodded at her, as though he thought she knew what he was speaking of.

Crazed old fool.

Page narrowed her eyes at him. “Really?” she asked, sounding taxed. “And what, perchance, did you come up with?”

Again he chuckled, and leaned to whisper, “No’ a thing, lass.”

Page snorted, and rolled her eyes. “Try an eye for an eye,” she proposed, mocking his laird’s justification. “And make yourself at home, why do you not?” She eyed the ground where he’d plopped himself down, and then turned to smile at him grimly. “In fact, if you would be so kind as to unbind my hands,” she suggested in an acidly sweet tone, “I should be verra pleased to run and fetch you a wee dram like a good little lass.” She batted her lashes at him for effect.

He didn’t laugh this time. Instead, he cocked his head reproachfully. “You dinna see me tryin’ to butcher your tongue, now d’ you?”

“You dinna have to try,” she returned flippantly, smiling fiercely. “I would venture to say you do it quite well naturally.” She lifted a brow. “At any rate, I thought it a rather a good impersonation.”