“Aye, lass, but I might be tempted to show you.”
He pressed her hand more fully against him, and Page felt him pulse again beneath her palm. She blinked, as though coming aware suddenly of where her hand lay, and then jerked it away, flushing with embarrassment. How could she possibly have been so brazen?
He chuckled softly, and she lay back upon the breacan to stare with mortification into the feathery darkness, her breathing labored and her blush high—thank God for the shadows that concealed it!
“G’nite, lass,” he whispered, a smile in his voice.
Page couldn’t find her own voice to respond. She lay there, trying to determine what in creation had happened—how things had gone so awry.
She’d gone into this night expecting to goad the MacKinnon into anger, to make him sorely regret her presence, and had ended trying to goad him into taking her into his arms.
What else could she have intended by asking him questions of such a nature?
She’d also intended that his men should be so weary after a night of her relentless singing that they could scarce ride on the morrow. As it turned out, Page could hardly close her eyes. Every moment, she was acutely aware of the man and child lying beside her—of the ties at her wrist that kept her bound to him. She might have attempted to reposition Malcom’s head and work the bindings free, but she couldn’t bear to move the boy from where he lay. And then, when the MacKinnon turned abruptly in his sleep and drew her into an embrace that encompassed the three of them, she couldn’t bear to end the sweet sense of belonging. She closed her eyes, and vowed to savor every last second of this euphoria in her heart. Shielding herself from the cold, she dared to nestle deeper within the embrace.
Tomorrow she could devote herself to escape.
Tonight she needed this more than she did her next breath—if only for the night, she could pretend. Only sometime, deep in the night, sleep cruelly deprived her, and she slept.
chapter 12
Somehow morning dawned colder than the night before.
Page awoke, shivering. Her sense of emptiness returned. Misty sunlight shone into the glade, but that meager light was not enough to warm her stiff bones, and the overcast day promised a freezing rain that was certain to make the stiffness eternal.
She had to find a way to escape today.
There must be some way to evade them... somehow...
The MacKinnon had risen. So, too, had his son, leaving her to sleep alone upon the breacan.
Well, she berated herself. What had she expected? A morning kiss from the mighty MacKinnon? A waking hug from his son? Hardly! They weren’t her family, she reminded herself. They were her gaolers, naught more—no matter that they’d shared a sweet moment the night before. It meant naught. Less than naught.
Save to her, it seemed.
Jesu, but it had filled her with a sense of belonging so keen and so beautiful that this morning she could only mourn its loss.
She closed her eyes and shielded her face from the morning light with an arm thrown across her eyes. If she willed herself back... she could still feel the tendrils of warmth and affection squeezing at her heart.
Certainly the warmth that sidled through her this morn had naught to do with his bawdy promise! Her cheeks burned at the mere memory of where her hand had been.
He’d said that he wanted her—for what, she had no need to guess by the fullness of his loins. God have mercy upon her soul, for some part of her had been ready to cast herself into his arms, for merely the promise of affection, when she should have recoiled at the insinuation.
Was she so hungry for affection that she was willing to seek it, even at the risk of her own ruination?
It seemed so.
She sighed then, and sat, nettled by the turn of her thoughts, for she knew what a futile gesture it would be. She wasn’t part of this family. She wasn’t part of any family. Offering her body as a sacrifice for his pleasure wasn’t going to change anything at all.
And her father wanted her back, she reminded herself, hope surging again. At any cost, she must find a way to return to her father.
Leaning back against a tree, she hugged her knees to her breast, watching the MacKinnon huddle together with his men. They spoke urgently in their own tongue, and she wondered what it was they discussed. She didn’t ponder it long, however, for she spied Malcom then, standing next to a tree, with his back to her, rocking from foot to foot.
Poor wretched child, she thought. He seemed sad somehow this morn, his shoulders drooping, his head down, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of his mother after last night. Page couldn’t forget the wistful way he’d spoken of her. There’d been no complaint in his voice, merely truth, and yet the sadness with which he’d spoken of the mother he’d never known had wrenched at Page’s heart. She knew firsthand how difficult it could be to grow up without a mother—or a father, but that was another story entirely.