Maggie was a good sounding Scots name.
Anger surged through him once more.
At his wits’ end with the search, he cursed and hacked off the crown of a bush, then bellowed for Dougal. “Take Broc and Kerwyn,” Iain directed the lad. “Search to the right; circle about. Lagan,” he commanded, turning to address his dour-faced cousin. “Take Kerr and Kermichil and sweep to the left.”
Lagan nodded and did as he was directed without question. Iain took the remaining two men with him. The greater number of his forces, he’d assigned to remain with Page and Malcom. The last thing he intended was to lose his son again to FitzSimon.
As far as Iain was aware, they’d not been followed, but he didn’t intend to take unnecessary risks where Malcom was concerned—for all he knew, FitzSimon had pursued them, but at a discreet distance, with the intent of luring them away upon this fruitless search, so that he might in the meantime reclaim Malcom.
While Iain was certain the bastard was unwilling to stir himself for his daughter’s sake, Malcom was another matter entirely. Doubtless FitzSimon would be facing Henry’s wrath over losing his ward. In truth, ’twas why Iain had forsaken the old road, opting for the shorter, more arduous route across the border and into the Highlands—just in case the fool thought to follow. Aye, for there was a reason Scotia had resisted outlanders so well and so long; the land was their ally.
Nor did he wish for Page to have access to the old road to facilitate her escape. Though why he should care whether she fled them, he didn’t know. He only knew that he could scarce stomach the thought of her facing her father and the despicable truth—that he didn’t want her.
The look he’d spied upon her face when, with Malcom in tow, he’d returned from dealing with her father haunted him still.
It was Broc who discovered the body, not long after their divergence. The lad’s hue and cry seemed more a woman’s squawk in its unrestrained hysteria.
Iain spun and raced through the woods, batting at limbs and leaping over low shrubbery to find Broc doubled over and spewing out his guts.
“Wolves!” Broc declared with a strangled gasp.
Iain followed his gaze to where Kerwyn and Dougal were dragging the body out from under bracken and brush, their faces ashen as they heaved out their friend by his arms. At the sight of them, Broc doubled over to retch yet again. Were Iain not suddenly so sick at heart himself, he might have been amused by the sight of the strapping young lad doubled over before him. Easily the tallest of them all, Broc, for all his bluster, bore a woman’s heart, along with his much too bonny face.
“Looks like something made a feast of him during the night,” Dougal said grimly.
“And buried him for another meal,” Kerwyn added, his jaw clenching.
“Och,” Dougal said, shaking his head and grimacing, “but ye canna even tell ‘tis Ranald, save for the breacan he wears.”
Iain walked to where they had dropped the body, and stood looking down upon the lifeless carcass at their feet. Both Kerwyn and Dougal averted their gazes, unable to peer down into the mangled face and body of their kinsman.
“What’ll we do?” Kerwyn asked. “What’ll we tell his minnie?”
“The truth,” Iain answered, his gaze fixing upon the wooden shaft that protruded from Ranald’s chest. He bent to examine the broken arrow, running a finger over the jagged end. “Whatever that may be. Wolves may have feasted here,” he declared, “but be damned if someone else didn’t get to him first.” The wolves’ attack had been so ravenous, they’d obviously broken the arrow in their frenzy. Iain considered the broken arrow another moment, something about it niggling at him, until Lagan, Kermichil, and Kerr broke into the copse where they had gathered.
Eyeing Broc with lifted brows, Kermichil then turned his gaze to the body, his lips twisting into a grimace. “Christ!” he exclaimed.
With a keening cry of grief, Lagan came to his knees at Ranald’s side. “Stupid bastard!” he lamented, letting out another low, tortured moan. “Stupid, stupid bastard!”
Iain placed a hand to his cousin’s shoulder and squeezed, comforting him, urging him to his feet. “There’s naught we can do for him now, Lagan,” he said. Lagan came to his feet, nodding, battling grief—a grief that was reflected in each and every man’s eyes, though none spoke it openly. Each had understood the risks they would face in coming to this place.
Iain removed his breacan and tossed it at Dougal, his heart heavy with the task ahead. “Wrap him,” he commanded, his voice hoarse. “He deserves a proper burial.” His jaw clenched. “We’ll be takin’ him home to see that he gets it.”