The MacKinnon’s Bride(47)

She stole a glance at the MacKinnon, just as the wind whipped, lifting his breacan and tunic. Her breath caught, and her body betrayed her then. Her heart began to thump against her ribs.

Like warm spiced mead, heat slid through her, burning her flesh, and making her mouth go drier than sun-dried leather. The movement of the horse between her thighs quickened her breath, even as the sight of the MacKinnon awakened her body to life. Her hand fluttered to her throat, and then slid down the front of her gown; she paused at her breast, marveling at the sensations that stirred there.

Sweet Jesu. He was the only man who had ever made her feel...

She closed her eyes and lifted her hand, caressing the bared flesh at her throat, imagining his hand there instead...

He was the first man ever to have awakened her body to life... the first whose touch she’d ever craved... the first man who’d ever wanted her...

Aye, and she wanted him to want her, but it wasn’t his love she yearned for, she told herself. She was no dog to go begging for affection, but a woman whose body was not made of cold steel.

She wanted him, she admitted wantonly.

And she wanted him to want her.

Her enemy.

Her eyes flew open, and her breath caught as she looked about anxiously, praying no one had spied her at her wicked musings. Her cheeks flamed with mortification.

Her gaze settled upon the man who had so easily and without trying invaded her every thought.

He was wholly unaware of her.

He rode with his son, oblivious to the reactions of Page’s treacherous body. Her brows drew together, and she nibbled the inside of her lip. What a fool she was!

He didn’t want her, she berated herself.

Whatever had possessed her to believe him when he’d said he did? The man riding before her could have any woman he so chose. And Page was no man’s choice.

Not even her own father’s.

Which brought her to wonder .. . whatever had Broc meant when he’d said that the MacKinnon felt compelled to save her from her da? She stole a glance at the behemoth riding beside her. But he willna be rid o’ ye so easily, I swear by the stone, she heard him say to her again, and she blinked. Her father? Her father wouldn’t be rid of her so easily? A feeling of unease sidled through her.

The one thing she knew for certain was that somehow, she needed to find a way back home.

She was desperate to find a way to escape.





Iain placed a hand to his son’s shoulder, squeezing gently, with a desperation that belied the reassurance of his touch. “Try to remember, Malcom...”

For a long instant there was silence between them, as Malcom tried desperately to do as was bade of him. “I canna, da,” he answered unhappily. “I only remember wakin’ up.” His son peered up at him, and his little brows were drawn together in a frown.

“Wi’ David?”

His answer was a soft child’s murmur.

“Weel, then, son, dinna fash yourself. ‘Tis no failing o’ yours that you canna remember.”

Malcom nodded, and Iain asked, “They didna hurt you, did they?”

Malcom shook his head.

“Guid,” Iain said. If he discovered elsewise, he’d have to turn his mount about and strangle the first Sassenach neck he encountered. “Tell me one more time, son... and I willna trouble you with it for a while more... Tell me exactly what you remember about that night.”

“I only remember eating... and then I was sleepy,” he said.

“Who was there eating wi’ ye, d’ ye remember that much?”

“Ummm... auld Angus?”

He sounded so uncertain that Iain had to wonder how much of the sleeping drog they’d given him. Christ, but ’twas a wonder they’d not killed him! His anger mounted once again, though no one could have suspected by the ease of his posture. Only the muscle ticking at his jaw, as he listened to his son, gave testament to his incredible fury. “I know aboot Angus... Anyone else, son?”

“Maggie,” Malcom declared. “And Glenna— and Broc.”

Most every man had been with Iain, save for Angus and Broc, he reflected. And Lagan.

But Lagan had been brawling again with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. His cousin had long ago taken a liking to the dun- haired lass, but MacLean had sworn he’d never trust another of his lasses to MacKinnon men. Iain couldn’t say as he blamed the man.

Mairi’s death had not been by his own hands, but the fault lay still upon his shoulders. He should have known. He should have stopped her somehow. And he might have, had he not been holding their son.

Malcom. He’d long grieved for Malcom, for she’d abandoned him as surely as though she’d slapped his face and then walked away. Christ, but he loathed her for that.