The MacKinnon’s Bride(45)
Page stared a long moment at the MacKinnon’s back.
He was preoccupied with his son, never the least aware of her presence. He didn’t want her—couldn’t possibly—and why should he?
She peered at the rest of the men, watching them a moment longer. Not a one of them seemed to be the least concerned with the discussion she and Broc were having together.
For truth, it seemed she was unwanted.
Jesu, but it seemed to be her destiny.
The ache in her heart intensified. Why? Her brows drew together. Why should she care one whit what these people felt for her? She couldn’t possibly have thought they’d want her, after all? That they would take her as one of their own into their fold? She couldn’t have possibly hoped?
How disgustingly foolish she was, for she suspected that some silent aching part of her had longed for just those things.
“Drop it,” Broc demanded again, and Page moved her hand out from her skirts. She held her fist clenched at her side, concealed between them.
He eyed her closed hand expectantly, and she was uncertain whether to drop the fragment or nay. It could be a trap, she realized. In truth, he might well be trying to coax the evidence from her hand...
And then again, nay, for all he would need do was utter a single word to his laird, and then her ploy would be finished... and he’d not done so.
“Unless ye dinna wish to go,” he taunted her. Page met his mocking blue gaze. “Are ye so smitten wi’ the MacKinnon already, English? D’ ye want him to want you?” He lifted a pale brow in challenge. “Is that it?”
Glaring at him, Page opened her hand, releasing the piece of cloth. It fluttered down between cantering hooves.
He merely smiled. “There now,” he said. “That wasna so difficult, was it?”
“Scot!” She spat the word as though it were a blasphemy, but he seemed impervious to her anger. “Jesu! But I can scarce wait to be free of the lot of you!”
“Guid,” the giant said, grinning. “Because the feeling is mutual.”
“Bloody behemoth!” she hissed at him. “Do you oft make it a practice to tyrannize those weaker than you?”
His grin suddenly turned into a frown, and he seemed genuinely insulted by her question. Good! Let him be!
“I’d rather be a bluidy behemoth,” he grumbled, “than an impertinent little dwarf.”
Page straightened her spine, utterly insulted. “I am not a dwarf, you despotic oaf!” She stared at him, wondering if he was blind. “I am tall for a woman, I’ll have you know—or mayhap Scots women all are bloody behemoths, too?” He didn’t react enough to Page’s liking and she added spitefully, “Or mayhap you wouldn’t know? Perchance all women run in fear of you!”
Scarlet color crept up Broc’s fair neck and into his pretty face, and Page was wholly shocked to find that her words had unerringly hit the mark. With a face like the one he possessed, she’d never have guessed. His blue eyes were clear and bright, and his features well defined. He had not the stark, masculine beauty of the MacKinnon’s face, but he was comely nonetheless. Guilt stung her, though she told herself he deserved every word.
“Do you not have a woman, Broc?” she asked, trying to soothe his bruised feelings, though she knew not why she should.
The giant straightened his spine, his disposition surly as he revealed, “I have a dog. What need have I for a woman?”
He turned away, his face bright red, and Page nipped at her lip to keep from grinning at his innocent question—his even more callow reply. Sweet Mary, but even she knew what a man needed with a woman! She’d certainly spied enough lovers in the shadows of Balfour.
“She’s a verra smart dog,” he added defensively, though he didn’t bother to look at her. “The smartest dog I’ve ever known!”
Page didn’t reply.
“Loyal, too,” he added, and she nearly burst into hysterical laughter at his plaintive tone.
Good Lord! She continued to stare, and had to resist the urge to breach the barrier between them, to put her hand upon his arm and soothe his injured pride.
He scratched rather earnestly at his groin area, and then the back of his ear, and Page grimaced, wondering if he’d gotten fleas from sleeping with his dog.
“What are ye looking at!” he snapped, when he turned and found her staring.
She cringed at the harsh tone of his voice and averted her gaze, determined not to banter words with the surly giant any longer. Damnation, though she’d never admit it to him, she’d certainly run in fear of him too!
Shielded by his towering form, she continued to tear snippets from her shift and then drop them at intervals, and though she cursed Broc’s arrogant presence beside her, he didn’t break his word.