The MacKinnon’s Bride(32)

He walked away, leaving them alone once more—as alone as they might be with a horde of barbarians surrounding them.

Without the sun to warm them, the northern spring night was wintry, but peaceful. Page lay there, staring past the budding leaves on the treetops, until the leaves were no more than shadows against the night sky. She stared up at the frosty points of light, trying not to notice the rising chill. Curious, that... last eve, on her way to her swim, she’d gazed up at those very same stars... they had seemed more like brilliant winking fires then... promising the gentle warmth of a summer night’s breeze.

She shivered and curled upon the blanket as she heard little Malcom come and make his bed on the other side of his father. The two of them whispered together in their tongue, and the MacKinnon chuckled. Envy pricked at her, but she ignored it, wholly shamed by the uncharacteristic reaction.

Sweet Jesu, what was wrong with her that she would begrudge a child his father’s affections?

He was what was wrong with her, Page assured herself, bristling.

He’d come into her life and had made her feel again—all these accursed emotions she’d tucked so neatly away!

Well, by God, she was going to have the last word tonight—or rather the last song—and she hoped she kept them awake all night long! She hoped they would be so blessed weary come first light that they would need put twigs in their eyes to keep them open!

She waited patiently until the darkness descended more fully, until it seemed everyone had settled for the night, and then she began to sing at the top of her lungs.





chapter 10





Iain had only begun to doze.

He came full awake with a start, his eyes crossing at the resounding shrillness of her voice. Bloody hell, but he should have known her compliance was too good to be true! He frowned as Malcom’s little body jerked awake.

One by one, his men came awake, as well—some with a snort of surprise, others with mumbled “Huhs?” and still others with muttered curses.

And still she sang on, some English ballad about some man whose truest love had spurned him.

“Softly the west wind blows; gaily the warm sun goes; The earth her bosom sheweth, and with all sweetness floweth. I see it with mine eyes, I hear it with mine ears, But in my heart of sighs, yet am I full of tears. Alone with thought I sit, and blench, remembering it; Sometimes I lift my head, I neither see nor hear...”

And so she continued, her song blaring, her melody true, but grating in its untimeliness and its volume. Iain waited impatiently, teeth clenched until he thought they might shatter. He stared into the darkness, while his men continued to grumble complaints, refusing to allow himself to be baited. He knew what she was trying to do, and God’s teeth, it was working! But he’d be damned if he’d let her know it!

She’d grow tired soon enough and quit, he assured himself, and was rewarded when at the end of the verse, she suddenly quieted.

Sighing with vexed relief, Iain closed his eyes, only to snap them open when she began the verse over again.

This time louder.

Muttering silent curses, he said nothing, keeping reign upon his temper. Neither did his men speak but to themselves, until she began the verse yet a third time.

“Och, now, Iain!” Angus complained loudly. “Canna ye make her leave the lays until the morrow!”

His complaint was reinforced by a number of groans and muttered curses as the lass sang louder still. Iain closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, praying to God to give him strength.

“Bluidy willful English!” muttered Lagan.

He’d taken the words right out of Iain’s mouth.

When Malcom lifted his little head and peered at her through the shadows, he decided enough was enough. Before his son could voice his own complaint, Iain inhaled a bellow—and strangled on his words as an enormous bug flew down his throat, silencing him.

Choking and coughing, Iain dragged his son from atop him and turned to slap a hand over the wench’s mouth, trying to save her from herself. Christ, he could have sworn she smiled at his attempt to hush her. Preoccupied with strangling as he was, his muzzle stopped her all of two seconds and then she began the verse yet another time, though this time the words were muffled through his fingers.

“Bluidy hell, doesna she know another song, at least?” Dougal asked.

Iain might have asked the very same thing, were he not struggling for his next breath. Damn the vexsome wench! Still choking, he sat, dragging her with him as he leaned to hawk the bug from his mouth. Nothing came, and he was mightily afraid he’d swallowed the creature. Damn!

She sang louder, and Iain peered at her from the corner of his eyes, considering thrusting the whole of his arm down her throat. “Stubborn,” he rasped, and choked again, giving in to another coughing fit. “Stubborn, fashious wench,” he finished when he could.