The MacKinnon’s Bride(3)
His son.
He might have reached her had he not been holding their son.
Startled by his bellow, the babe began to squeal and Iain could only stare, stupidly, at the open window where an instant before his wife had stood.
Chapter 1
Northumbria, Balfour Castle, 1124
Someone was watching; she could feel it.
Page froze in the midst of donning her undergown.
A twig snapped, muffled by the bracken of the forest floor, and she snatched down the hem, her eyes focusing upon the twisting shadows of the not too distant woods.
She could see naught through the midnight blackness, and naught more than silence reached her—a silence that settled like the night mist, formless and unnatural. Her teeth began to chatter, and for a long instant she stood there, chilled and wary, but she could hear nothing more than familiar night sounds: the croaking of frogs, the trilling of crickets, the distant howl of a wolf.
A quiver passed down her spine, for she had heard something. She was nearly sure of it.
’Twould behoove her, she decided, to hie back to the safety of the keep—perhaps to rethink the wisdom in coming out alone at night. All these months of slipping out without incident had made her lax in her guard.
Like a hundred nights before, Page had come out for her swim, without bothering to inform anyone of her destination—not that anyone would have cared, she assured herself quickly. God’s truth, but the only blessed good to come of being daughter to a man who only wanted sons was that she had the freedom to do as she pleased. And yet it truly meant that nobody cared one whit where she went, what she did, or what became of her. And she didn’t trouble herself to think tonight would be any different.
On the other hand, she cared! She cared very much, and she had no intention of becoming somebody’s—or something’s—prey!
She sat hurriedly upon the boulder beside where she’d lain her clothes, and reached down to pluck up her beaten shoes from the dewy ground. She donned one quickly, muffling silent curses as her wet foot impeded her progress, and then changed her mind about lingering long enough to dress.
Mist crept about her feet, nebulous fingers wrapping about her ankles, unsettling her. She didn’t consider herself an overly fanciful person, but this instant, she might as well have been a timid church mouse for all that her heart was racing. Peering up at the sliver of moon that hovered above, she surged to her feet, bending hurriedly to retrieve the remainder of her garments.
Her eyes sought the metallic glimmer of her dagger beneath the pile of her clothing, and the downy hairs at her nape prickled when she failed to find it.
For the love of Christ, where could she have put it?
What good were clothing if she were dead. Dumping her gathered bundle, she lifted the other shoe to peer inside, thinking mayhap she’d placed the small dagger within it, but it wasn’t there, and she stifled a curse, fearing God was like to banish her to purgatory for an eternity already for her irreverence. Damnation, but she couldn’t help it.
Where could it possibly be?
Another twig snapped, closer this time, and Page decided she didn’t need the dagger after all. No sooner was her decision made when there was a hideous outcry. In the next instant they appeared—three barely discernible figures scrambling from the woods.
She didn’t linger to discover their intent.
Shrieking in fear, Page bolted, flinging the shoe behind her. An answering curse rang out, but she didn’t bother turning to see what damage it may have inflicted—minimal, if any, she was certain, for the sole was soft and worn with age—more’s the pity! She would’ve hoped to pluck out an eye with it!
Spouting oaths she didn’t like to admit she knew, she ran with all her might towards the castle, crying out for aid, hoping Edwin, the gatekeeper, wasn’t so inebriated that he thought her pleas a mere fancy of his cockeyed dreams. Blundering sot! If he had been at his post to begin with, she might not be in this predicament—she mightn’t have left the castle so effortlessly. And yet she knew the fault was not his, but hers. She should have known better—curse her rotten luck!
Her heart pounded faster with every stride she took.
Like a death knell, the sound of their footfalls came faster.
Closer.
She quickened her pace, surging forward with a burst of energy born of terror. Ignoring the pain that flared at her side, Page kept near to the stream lest she collide with the enormous oak tree that guarded the pathway to the castle. God forgive her, but she hoped they wouldn’t see it and break their bloody necks for their efforts!
Her chest heaved. The pain in her side came sharper as she raced past the old oak. Still they remained behind her, their footfalls catching her shorter strides with too little effort.