“He bargained with you in good faith!”
His jaw clenched, and he averted his gaze. For an instant he said nothing, and then he turned to face her once more, resolute. “Your father conspired wi’ David to take my son.”
Page shook her head. “Nay!” she argued. “He did not! Your King conspired with Henry! My father simply provided your son safe harbor at David’s urging and King Henry’s command! Naught more!”
He seemed to be considering, and Page sensed his hesitation and added hastily, “He told my father you abused the boy. That he was so ill treated, he would not speak for fear of chastening!”
Still he seemed to be considering, but he said nothing; instead he seemed to be waiting for her to continue.
Page swallowed, afraid to hope, her heart racing. “So you see,” she urged him desperately, “he thought he was helping your son. Let me go. You have your son, now let me go!”
“Nay, lass.”
In the space of an instant, her hopes were dashed. And so easily. “You are vile!” she spat, and twisted away from him. “Get off me!”
He complied at once, but didn’t go far. He sat beside her, leaning an arm upon his lifted knee, his face screwed with some emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. She hoped he was suddenly conscience-stricken over his faithlessness, but knew better than to hope for such a human emotion from a wretch such as he.
Page sat, too, glaring at him. “I swore I would make your life miserable, and I will! I’ll not go willingly!”
“But you will go,” he avowed.
It was getting dark now, shadows descending. Page felt them seep into her heart. The numbness in her wrists was fading now, and her hands and fingers were beginning to hurt. She massaged them, embracing the pain. It was a welcome distraction.
He reached out suddenly and grasped her wrist, not injuriously. Page started to jerk away, but he held her fast.
“I’m going to bind your wrist to mine,” he explained.
Page opened her mouth to object, but he stopped her with a curt gesture.
“’Tis the only way I’ll allow ye to remain unfettered.”
“Unfettered!” Page contended, incredulous. She tried to jerk her arm free, but his grip was unyielding. “What do you call binding my wrist to yours?”
“A safety measure,” he relented.
Page glared at him.
“The choice is yours, lass...”
She let her arm go slack in his grasp, and snorted inelegantly. “What a choice! Bind me, then.”
He did at once, binding her right hand to his left hand, securing the bonds, and then with his other hand, he removed the scarlet and black checkered blanket from his shoulders. He muttered an oath as he floundered over its removal, and then he glanced at her as though asking for her assistance.
Page screwed her face at him and drew back a little, thinking him mad. “You cannot possibly think I would help?”
His lips curved into a crooked grin. “I dinna suppose you would, at that.” He eyed her discerningly, and resolved to use both hands. He drew off his breacan and spread it between them, lifting himself up to draw half of the blanket beneath himself. Page considered a moment, and then did the same, knowing she’d only spite herself if she resisted. He offered her a little lopsided grin for her effort, but she refused to acknowledge it. She didn’t wait for him to lie down, but did so at once herself, taking up as much of the blanket as she dared, and a little bit more.
To her surprise, he didn’t complain when there was only a sliver of blanket left for him. He simply lay upon his apportioned share, half on the blanket, half off.
So he meant to be chivalrous, did he?
Well, she fully intended to be anything but courtly!
“Iain,” Lagan said, appearing above them. His face twisted into a frown as he stared down at them. “How verra cozy,” he remarked with a curve to his lips. Page averted her gaze, wholly uncomfortable with the glare he cast her.
“What is it, Lagan?”
“Ranald,” Lagan said, and his look softened to one of concern. He spoke to the MacKinnon in his own tongue.
“Go and look for him, then,” Iain answered so that she understood. “But dinna fret overmuch... Remember ‘tis Ranald the scavenger we’re speaking of. He’ll be back on his own... as always.”
“Aye,” Lagan agreed. “You’re like to be right. He’ll come back when it suits him... He always does. G’nite, then, Iain.”
“G’nite,” Iain replied. “Get yourself some rest, Lagan.”
“Aye,” Lagan said, turning from them, his lips curving into a leer. “You too, Iain.”