And for leaving him with her blood upon his hands.
As far as MacLean was concerned, Iain was her murderer, for he had been the last to see her alive and he had been the one at the window, while his daughter’s body lay sprawled upon the jagged rocks below. Any chance for peace had been crushed along with her that day.
In truth, looking at it through MacLean’s eyes, it didn’t matter much whether Iain had pushed her from that window, or whether he’d merely driven her to it. He was responsible either way, and were Iain in MacLean’s shoes, he didn’t think he’d give another daughter to settle any goddamned feud.
God help him, even to his own mind, he was guilty. Somehow, he’d failed Mairi. He didn’t know what it was he’d done to drive her out from that tower window, but he must have done something.
Something.
He hadn’t loved her precisely. She’d been much too reserved with her own affections for that, but he’d cared for her nonetheless. And he’d wanted to love her. There just hadn’t been enough time.
What had he done to drive her from that window?
In the beginning, the need to know had driven him near mad. It tormented him still. He must have done something, but he couldn’t recall ever treating her unkindly. God’s truth, but he’d set out to woo her, though he’d failed miserably. To this day, the image of her standing before the tower window haunted him—hair mussed, eyes wild, and that slight smile that made the hairs upon his nape stand on end even after all this time.
He shuddered, willing away the graven image, and asked his son, “And you dinna recall going to bed? Or waking in the night?”
“Nay, da,” Malcom answered dejectedly. “I dinna recall.”
Iain ruffled his hair. “Dinna worry yourself aboot it then.”
From what Maggie had told him, Malcom had fallen asleep at table, over his haggis—not surprising when the boy would and did do anything to keep from having to eat his pudding. Maggie had tried to wake him, and upon finding him truly asleep, had carried him to his bed. Feeling drowsed herself, she’d never made it out of the room. She’d dozed while recounting him a story, and had slept sitting beside the bed, her head pillowed within her arms. It was only in the morn, after she’d passed auld Angus still asleep at table, slumped over his plate, that she’d begun to suspect. Glenna had fallen asleep in the kitchen, Malcom was nowhere to be found, and no one had witnessed a bloody thing. What Iain wanted to know... almost as much as who... was how in God’s name they’d managed to drog the entire household with no one the wiser.
He damned well intended to find out.
It occurred to him suddenly that he couldn’t call Page Maggie. Och, but two Maggies in one household would be one too many. He’d have to think of another name. He was certain she couldn’t be enamored of Page, but how to broach the issue without offending her... Or mayhap he wouldn’t broach it at all, he’d simply call her by whatever new name he decided upon. If she objected, he would simply have to set about finding her another, until he found one she preferred.
When had he made the decision to keep her? he wondered.
Christ only knew, he didn’t need the battle of wills—nor was she a beast of burden for her fate to be decided upon so easily, and yet those were precisely the reasons he wasn’t about to let her go. Somehow, it had become crucial to him that she not be hurt any more than he was certain she was hurt already. And if she discovered her father didn’t want her...
He frowned. She still harbored hope that he would come after her—bastard! He spied it upon her face, and in the way she turned so often to peer behind. As though looking for him. Iain almost wished the whoreson would pursue them, so she wouldn’t be disappointed.
So that he might cast his blade into the bastard’s stone-cold heart.
He’d thought to have the opportunity when they’d found Ranald’s body, but Iain had seen no sign of FitzSimon’s party since then. In truth, he hadn’t even then, save for the evidence of Ranald’s body.
If not FitzSimon, who had gotten to Ranald?
Who would have motive?
The possibility that one of his own might be responsible made his gut turn. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. Something lay at the edge of his thoughts, something, though he could not capture it. Every time he came close, he heard the ghost of the lass’ song in his ears.
Hush ye, my bairnie, my bonny wee lammie...
Christ, where had he heard the lay before? Whose voice was it that haunted him?
The memory escaped him.
On the other hand, he was intensely aware of the woman riding at his flank—of every glance she gave him, every move she made. And aye, he was aware, too, that she was dropping the scraps. He’d spied her at her mischief just about the time Broc had. Iain hadn’t confronted her because the matter he’d been discussing with Malcom had been more important. And just in case she managed an escape, he fully intended to go back after them tonight—gather just enough to thwart her. Her scheme wasn’t going to help her any at all.