The MacKinnon’s Bride(42)

chapter 14





They rode without speaking, their mood somber and their faces grim.

Page felt as though she were part of a funeral procession—a brooding stranger amongst grieving kin.

Ranald’s body had been strapped to the back of Lagan’s mount, and though they’d taken great care to wrap him tightly, the length of his body made it impossible for the blanket to cover him completely. A leaden foot peeked out, waving at her with every jouncing movement of the horse’s stride.

The sight of it turned Page’s stomach. Had she chanced to eat anything this morn, she might have lost the contents of her belly. As it was, she was in danger of no such thing, because she hadn’t eaten anything at all. They’d begun the search almost at once upon waking, and after the discovery of the body they hadn’t seemed inclined to take the time to fill their stomachs. Page could scarce blame them for their lack of appetite. Though her own belly churned in protest, she doubted she could have kept anything down for long.

She’d never seen a dead body before—in truth, hadn’t as yet, for they hadn’t unveiled him. But she knew he was there. Even had she been able to pretend the bundle was no more than hefty baggage, the waving foot remained a grim reminder.

Though she tried to ignore the body, and the foot, it was nigh impossible—particularly as they’d allowed her the use of poor Ranald’s mount. Like dogs herding sheep, they kept her girdled between them, making any sudden flight for freedom she might undertake all but impossible.

Nevertheless, when the time was right, she fully intended to try.

Jesu, but she couldn’t believe their arrogance in giving her a mount—not that she wasn’t grateful, mind you. She was more than pleased not to have to ride with the MacKinnon again. His presence disturbed her. But she doubted they’d simply have handed her the reins had she been a man. Did they believe just because she was a woman she would not possess the wherewithal to attempt an escape? Well! She loathed to disappoint, but she would escape them, the very instant an opportunity presented itself.

For her sake, she hoped it came sooner rather than later.

Having had so little sleep the previous two nights, she struggled to keep alert. Every moment carried them farther from Balfour, she knew, and lessened her chances for escape. Out of sheer desperation, she had taken to tearing snippets from her undershift and dropping them furtively upon the ground to mark their path.

Ridiculous as it might seem, she had to do something. She couldn’t simply sit here upon poor Ranald’s horse and ride into oblivion. As of yet, no one had noticed, and she praised God for that small stroke of good fortune.

By late afternoon she began to worry that she wasn’t going to be afforded the opportunity to use the snippets to find her way back. It was becoming more and more difficult to tear at her shift without gaining notice, as the hem had long since whittled to her knees. When the sun began to fade at last, she resisted the urge to peer back to see how visible the tiny scraps were. She couldn’t afford to have them suspect her.

While the MacKinnon hadn’t spared her more than a glance in the hours they’d been traveling, the old man Angus and the one they called Broc kept her, without fail, within their sights.

Angus, for his part, seemed disinclined to forgive her for her surly temper of the previous eve. The old man frowned at her every time he chanced to peer her way. Well, she didn’t care. She didn’t need the old fool to like her. Forsooth! But she’d lived a lifetime without his favor. Why should she care that some old goose she’d only just met, and wouldn’t know long—her enemy at that—disapproved of her? She certainly did not!

Broc, on the other hand... She couldn’t quite figure him out. Hours ago, she could have sworn he’d spied her tearing her shift and casting the fragment upon the ground, and yet he’d said nothing at all. He’d kept his silence, casting her dubious glances now and again, but naught more.

Mayhap he’d not spied her, she wondered, nibbling the inside of her lip.

Well, she’d soon enough nave her answer, because it was time to tear another. She didn’t wish the scraps planted too far apart—nor too close, lest she run out of shift to rend. Though judging by the position of the sun, she thought they might be stopping soon for the night. Running v out of material didn’t seem to be her greatest concern—locating the scraps in the dark would be. And yet there was no help for it.

Each time she dropped a scrap, Page tried her best to note the surrounding landscape. She only hoped she would be able to recognize the way come nightfall. In her favor, the moon would be almost full again tonight. Its light should help to guide her—if she found a way to escape, she reminded herself. She wasn’t free as yet.