The MacKinnon’s Bride(44)
For an instant Page was too stunned by his accusation to do any more than stare up at the fair-haired giant. Sweet Mary, but these Scots were each one taller than the other! And their tempers, one more surly than the next!
How dare he place the blame for Ranald’s death at her feet!
Refusing to cow to his charge, Page narrowed her eyes at him. “How dare you accuse me, sir! I have absolutely no idea what poor Ranald wandered into, but whatever it was, was of his own doing—not mine! I assure you!”
He scratched idly behind his head.
“So ye say.”
He couldn’t possibly think her responsible. Could he? Her breath snagged at the sudden hope that spiraled to life within her. Unless... If her father had come after her... “My father?” she asked, and couldn’t conceal the note of hope in her voice.
“Nay,” the behemoth answered, with unmistakable disgust, and then surprised her by adding, “No such luck, wench. But he willna be rid o’ ye so easily—I swear by the stone!”
“So easily?” Page blinked in confusion. “But... I don’t understand...” Her brows collided. “What is it you are trying to tell me?”
He glowered at her. “Never mind, wench,” he said, snaking his head, as though he thought she was too obtuse to understand, and didn’t care to waste more words. He leaned closer to speak in a whisper. “I didna come to speak o’ your whoreson da,” he revealed, reaching back and scratching at his scalp. “But to tell ye to drop the bluidy piece o’ cloth, already.”
Momentarily shocked, Page crushed the cloth fragment within her fist and instinctively buried her hand deeper within her skirts.
His lips twisted with unconcealed contempt and his gaze shifted to the hand she’d shielded. “Drop the bluidy cloth,” he charged her.
Page stiffened in the saddle, her gaze flying about in alarm.
“Och, wench, I’ll no’ be exposin’ ye,” he assured her.
Her gaze snapped back to his face. “You... you’ll not?”
He shook his head, eyes gleaming. “I want ye gone, e’en more than you wish to go,” he swore. “But if ye willna drop the accursed thing, wi’ our luck, ye’ll wander in circles and end up right back in our bluidy camp.”
Page frowned, growing more and more confused. “But... I... I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “What of your laird?” She cast a nervous glance at the MacKinnon’s back. “I... I thought he...”
“Wanted ye?” The behemoth snorted and then turned to glance at his chieftain. “A mon says many things in a moment of... weakness.”
His gaze returned to Page, and her face heated as she remembered the moment she and the MacKinnon had shared the night before.
His moment of weakness.
What is it I have to fear? she recalled asking him.
That I might want ye, he’d whispered.
Jesu! Had everyone else overheard, as well? If Page had cared one whit what these people thought of her, then she would have been riddled with shame. But she didn’t care, she told herself. And she was not.
He scratched at his forehead. “I tell ye true... the MacKinnon doesna want ye any more than the rest o’ us do,” he told her.
Page said nothing in response, merely glared at him. Somehow, his words wounded, though she told herself she didn’t care. After all, wanting a woman in a moment of physical weakness was certainly not the same as wanting for a lifetime. She knew that.
“‘Tis God’s own truth I’d be doin’ Iain a favor,” he persisted. “He simply doesna wish to have your death upon his conscience, is all. And he doesna have to if you’ll but drop the bloody cloth.”
Deny it all she wished, but the truth pained her. Her confusion intensified with the ache in her heart. Something niggled at her... something... He didn’t wish to have her death upon his conscience? And yet why should he have her death upon his conscience unless he meant to kill her? And he didn’t want her... but he’d taken her, nevertheless?
Something was not right.
He’d said he’d taken her out of revenge... an eye for an eye, she reminded herself. And then, too, he had said he’d wanted her. Last night. Or that he might want her—Lord, but she was growing confused!
“But...” Page averted her gaze, unwilling to show him her pain, or the upheaval of her thoughts. “He said—”
“Never mind what he said. Drop the cloth,” he commanded her quietly. “Drop it now, and then keep them droppin’ till ye’re sittin’ bare arsed upon poor Ranald’s mount. I’ll shield ye... and then I’ll help ye to escape when the time comes. Do it!” he hounded her.