He didn’t give her away.
chapter 15
Of all Page wasn’t certain which was worse to bear: the presence of the irksome giant beside her... the gruesome foot waving at her from under the blanket on the horse before her... or the sight of the MacKinnon riding at their lead.
Like some heathen idol he sat his mount, tall and magnificent in the saddle, his dark, wavy hair blowing softly at his back. In the afternoon sunlight, the streaks of silver at his temples seemed almost a pagan ornament, for the metallic gleam of his braid was almost startling against his youthful features. The sinewy strength evident in the wide set of his shoulders and solid breadth of his back only served to emphasize the fact that he might have killed her any time he’d wished, with no more than a swat of his hand—that same hand that caressed his son so tenderly now.
In truth, he’d not even spoken to her harshly. He’d been naught but gentle, and it mightily confused her.
In fact, he might have done anything he’d wished to her, and no one could have stopped him. Scarce a handful of men present were even as big as the MacKinnon, and only two were taller—the man at her side being one of them. She cast him an irritated glance. And yet she knew Broc would no more prevail against his laird than he would consider rising up against him in the first place.
None of them would.
Her gaze swept the lot of them. It was evident that each and every man wholly embraced the MacKinnon as their leader. Jesu, but it was almost comical the way they allowed him the lead of their party. Like dogs, they followed wherever he went—and if one man chanced to pass him by, Page was struck with wonder that that man would unconsciously look to his laird, and then slow his gait to allow Iain to pass once more.
The MacKinnon, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to this ritual. He forged onward, his attention fixed only upon his son, who sat before him in the saddle.
There was an undeniable air of authority about him, one he wore with unaffected ease, and an air of total acceptance from his men.
And yet, he obviously did not oppress them, else the giant beside her would never be aiding her as he was. ’Twas evident by the way that he looked at his laird that he did so only because he meant to do him a favor. He seemed to think he was protecting the MacKinnon—and did so rather vehemently, Page thought.
Well, who would protect her from the MacKinnon? she wondered irritably.
Aye, she’d already determined that he’d not harm her, but what of her heart, and her soul, and her body?
She was drawn to him in a way she couldn’t comprehend, though she knew it was a dangerous longing. And still she couldn’t stop herself from yearning.
For what? The sweet promise of his whisper? The gentle touch of his hand?
His love? she thought with self-disdain.
Jesu, but it was growing more and more difficult to keep her eyes from wandering in his direction.
Particularly so given his meager state of dress.
The short tunic and wayward breacan exposed a sinfully bare thigh as he rode. And he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that the wind every so oft lifted his blanket for a tantalizing glimpse of the man beneath. Jesu, but she tried not to look—she truly did—but she could scarce keep herself from it, for the beauty of the man seduced her, stole her breath away.
Her heart quickened, for she was once again accosted by the image of them lying together upon his breacan... the way he’d taken her hand...
She swallowed at the memory, her throat feeling suddenly too raw.
Lord! She was a woman, was she not? No child. Why did every need have to be emotional? Mayhap it wasn’t love that drew her, after all. Why couldn’t it simply be that she wanted the things she knew instinctively he could give her as a man? Though she was innocent in the ways of men and women, she was no half-wit, by God! She was wholly aware of the way he made her feel... bold and breathless... achy.
It was a physical thing, for certain.
Aye, she wanted his arms about her. What was so wrong with that? Certainly she wasn’t the only woman who had been so inclined? Why was it that a man could want these things but a woman could not?
Why was it that a woman’s needs were to be masked by such a thing called love? Love was certainly overrated, she thought, and she wasn’t even sure it existed.
So then, if there was no such thing as love... wasn’t the mask a lie? Wasn’t it truly a weakness to fall back upon this myth? Wasn’t it better to be honest with oneself and admit the truth of the matter—that it was lust, instead?
Aye, she truly thought so... and though the MacKinnon might be her enemy, she was drawn to him in the way a man attracts a woman. Nothing more. Lust was uncontrollable, was it not? It was a primal thing that lured and seized one’s senses. And every waking thought. That’s what men claimed, at any rate. She’d heard more than a few faithless husbands tell their wives just so.