The MacKinnon’s Bride(28)
Angus made to rise, shaking his head. “Och, but ye are a pawky wench!” he swore, grimacing. “‘Tis a mystery to me as to why the lad feels so beholden to save—”
“You for myself,” the MacKinnon broke in, scowling down at Angus as the old man rose to his feet.
“Och, you’re welcome to her, Iain! ‘Tis glad I am to be leavin’ her to ye! I swear that men have died by duller weapons than that vicious tongue o’ hers!”
Page blinked, her gaze flying upward to meet the MacKinnon’s.
Iain.
The old man had called him Iain.
To save her for himself? She opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Surely he hadn’t said what she thought he’d said? Or if he had, he couldn’t possibly have meant what she thought he meant. Her brows drew together, for he couldn’t... possibly... want her?
Nay, she decided. So he must be hiding something. The old man had said that he felt beholden to save—what? Her? But from what?
“Busy makin’ friends, are ye, lass?” he asked rudely.
Page blinked, trying to recall every word of the exchange between the two, and nodded her head. “Aye...”
He lifted a brow, and his beautiful lips turned faintly at the corners. “Wool-gathering, are ye?”
Page’s brow furrowed. “I—”
Jesu, she couldn’t remember the question. She peered up at him, frowning, for she wasn’t about to ask the arrogant wretch what it was he’d said.
He grinned down at her suddenly, flashing white teeth. “‘Tis said,” he apprised, “that the mind is the first to leave us. Shall we begin the funeral preparations so soon?” He lifted his brows in unison.
Page’s cheeks flared. “You’re the one with the silver hair!” she pointed out baldly, averting her gaze, unable to bear his scrutiny an instant longer.
“So I am, lass.” She glanced up to spy the gleam of good humor in his gold-flecked eyes. “So I am.”
“How old are you anyway?” Page flung back at him, curiosity getting the beter of her. “Two score years?” She cocked her head, and added sweetly, “More?”
He merely chuckled at her impudence, and her ire intensified. Lord, but how dare he be so impervious!
“No’ so auld as that, wench,” he yielded, his grin turning frankly lascivious. “But auld enough to discern a virgin’s blush—and, I warrant, auld enough to know desire when I spy it.”
He had the audacity to wink at her.
Page’s gasp was audible, and when she could find her tongue to speak again, her words were strangled with fury. “How dare you!”
His grin turned more crooked still. “Well, now, because I’m a barbarous Scotsman, that’s how I dare. Have ye no’ heard, lass? We’re a randy lot, we Scots.”
“You’re a mighty crude lot!” she returned. “And feckless, too!”
“Aye, and dinna forget lusty,” he added, and winked again.
Sweet Jesu, if it was his intent to distract her, then he was surely succeeding in the endeavor, for she was flustered to her very toes. Page scowled at him. “Bedamned! Is that all you can think of?”
“Aye, wench.” His smile turned wicked now, and his voice softened. “When I’m looking at a bonny lass, ‘tis all I can think of.”
Page was momentarily dumbstruck by his brashness. She averted her face, her heartbeat quickening at his shameless cajolery. He was naught more than a smooth-tongued knave to speak such lies!
And yet...
“Y-you cannot,” she stammered, and shook her head. “Y-you cannot possibly think me...” Sweet Mary, but she could scarce even speak the word!
“Bonny?” he supplied.
Page’s gaze lifted to his.
He was scowling now, it seemed, staring as though he would see into her very soul, but he said nothing.
He didn’t answer.
It was just as she supposed—they were merely false words from a man who cared nothing for her feelings. ’Twas simply his way to be so glib and he couldn’t possibly mean it... and yet...
The look in his eyes... the way that he stared...
Could he?
chapter 9
Iain was staggered by the anguish so apparent in those liquid dark eyes.
Christ, did she not realize?
Could she truly not know?
In truth, he’d meant the words as a ploy, a simple flirtation to distract her, and yet it was the truth he spoke. Faced with her pain and her sorrow, he forgot where they stood for the moment, forgot that his men were likely to be watching them, forgot that they were supposed to be enemies—he the accursed foe, who’d dared steal her from her father, she the daughter of the man who’d stolen his son.