Her mother hadn’t wanted her, had ensconced herself within a nunnery after her birth—shamed by the sight of her, her father had said. Page sighed. To this day she suffered guilt over it. ’Twas no wonder her father scorned her so, for ’twas said that he’d loved her mother more than life itself.
And Page had driven her away.
What had she done? Wailed too much? Had she been too demanding? She must have been a difficult child—certainly her father had said so often enough.
And still it plagued her.
What might she have done differently?
Her brows drew together at the self-defeating vein of thought. What was done was done, she knew, and she couldn’t alter the course of her life now. Her mother was dead—had perished in the nunnery long ago of some fever of the lungs.
The best she could do now was make peace with her father, and the sooner she returned to Balfour, the sooner she could begin.
A fresh wash of anger flooded her.
Stealing a glance at the one to whom it was directed, she wondered if the tales were true, that he’d murdered his wife. Somehow, she didn’t think so. For as little as she knew of the man, he didn’t strike her as a murderer of innocent women. But then... Her brows drew together. Mayhap his wife had not been innocent.
In any case, ’twas certain the MacKinnon had had plenty of opportunity to harm Page already if he’d so wished, and yet he had not so much as lifted a finger against her in anger.
Although he may have wished to last night.
Page couldn’t suppress a vengeful smile at the thought of her rebelliousness. Sweet Mary, but she would have given much to have spied the MacKinnon’s face when she’d first screamed her song into his ear—and then his glower when he couldn’t get her to stop. Unable to keep herself from it, she indulged in a private giggle, and then bit her lip to sober herself.
He was a dangerous man, she knew.
So why didn’t she feel herself more afeared?
She frowned at that, and then contemplated his reaction to her defiance. Though she had feared his reaction beforehand, she couldn’t help but think his frustration rather humorous this morning—curious too, for a man such as the MacKinnon, whose legendary prowess upon the field of battle preceded him. As did his cruel reputation. There weren’t many in the northlands—nay, in all of England—who had not heard the tale of his poor wife’s demise. ’Twas said that he’d tossed her out from the tower window the very morning of his son’s birth, that he’d had no more use for her. She’d borne him his son, and that was all he’d required from her.
’Twas also said that his influence in the Highlands rivaled that of King David—that in truth, the Highlanders looked to the MacKinnon for their leadership, and that it sat sorely with David of Scotland.
Perhaps that was why David had stolen Malcom and had awarded the boy to the English court—to control the father?
Pondering the thought, Page rose and determined to lift little Malcom’s spirits—he’d allowed her to soothe him last eve; mayhap he would again. Later in the day, she would be gone from their presence, she hoped, but for now, mayhap she could make a difference in the little boy’s mood. Mayhap she could make him see that he could and would endure. She certainly had!
As she neared the boy, she realized he was singing to himself, and her heart twisted painfully as a vague memory came back to her, a dizzying whirlwind vision of herself lying within a golden field of grain, staring up as great tufts of white puffy clouds floated across a pale blue sky. She was singing herself a lullaby.
“Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee laddie,” he sang, in his lilting Scots brogue, bringing Page back. “When ye’re a man, ye shall follow your daddy...”
Page smiled at his song, and the way that he swayed to the time.
“Lift me a coo, and a goat and a wether,” he continued, and just then Page reached him, and put her hand upon his back, letting him know that she was there with comfort if he would only accept it. He stopped singing abruptly, and peered up at her over his shoulder, his little face screwing into a frown.
Page noticed he was holding something beneath his tunic, though she was unable to see it for the bulk of his breacan. She thought he might be hiding something from her, and wondered what it might possibly be. Her father had said they were a thieving lot, the Scots. Frowning, she reached back to seize the end of her plait and brought it about to be certain she still owned the only valuable thing she had to her name—the braided gold cord she’d pilfered from her father’s cloak and now used to bind her hair. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that it was still there, adorning her gnarled tresses, like a strand of gold in a bird’s nest. Again she frowned, and cast another glance at the MacKinnon, assuring herself that she didn’t care whether he found her wanting.