And the MacKinnon... She’d already determined how he made her feel.
Confused.
Hopeful.
Titillated.
And she’d be hanged before she’d let him know it!
Her patience at an end, she snapped the reins, spurring poor Ranald’s mount toward the lead rider. She headed straight toward the MacKinnon, cursing the circle of mounts that enclosed her. Be damned if they were going to keep her from speaking her mind! Determined to have words with her tormentor, she forced her way through the band of Scotsmen, ignoring the scores of curses and warnings that flew at her back.
No one stopped her, and in less than a moment, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had managed to plague most every second of every waking thought.
Iain MacKinnon.
Even his name made gooseflesh erupt.
“I demand you stop this instant!” she insisted of him.
He lifted a brow, and his sensuous lips curved with humor at her expense. “D’ you now?” he asked her. “And what is it precisely you wish me to stop, lass?” When Malcom, too, peered up at her, a little anxiously, he placed a hand gently to his son’s shoulder, reassuring him. Page tried not to note the simple fatherly gesture, and chose instead to focus upon her anger.
She chafed over his arrogant tone of voice. “I mean halt!” she said, indicating the cavalcade with an impatient wave of her hand. She eyed his son prudently, imagining the boy must think her a madwoman. She could scarce blame him; certainly she felt like one. God’s truth, she’d felt discomposed from the instant he had first set eyes upon her. Befogged. And then her gaze returned to the MacKinnon’s glittering amber eyes, and she suddenly couldn’t think at all.
Her heart leapt at what she saw in the depths of his gaze.
Desire.
No mistaking it.
Like golden flames flickering at her, his eyes sent molten heat through her body, making her skin prickle in a way that was both agonizing and breathtakingly sweet.
Those eyes mesmerized her, invited her to bask in their warmth.
An unwanted shiver coursed down her spine.
She tried to ignore it, and failed miserably. The assault upon her senses was too keen. Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and she stared, unable to look away.
“What is it ye would be wantin’ me to stop, lass?” he asked, his voice husky and low.
Her heart did a little somersault as she met his gaze.
He blinked, waiting, and Page swallowed. “I need to rest,” she clarified, slightly dazed, and more than a little breathless. The thickened sound of her voice embarrassed her.
He seemed to realize the effect his gaze had upon her, for his lips curved a fraction more, and she stammered, “W-we’ve b-been...”
He smiled suddenly, a devastating smile, and the breath left her completely. Her stomach floated, and her heart took wing, like the wind before a storm, flying into her throat—like dry leaves swept helplessly upward by a merciless gust only to choke within the gnarled limbs of trees.
“R-riding all the morn,” she finished lamely, swallowing.
He said nothing, merely deepened the smile, and Page felt suddenly like a wretched waif whose tongue had been cut out for merely stealing a taste of forbidden fruit. She felt suddenly so meritless beneath his scrutiny. Jesu, but he was beautiful... everything about him. Everything. From the curve of his lips, to the contours of his face, the long lean length of his body, and the muscled strength in his mostly bare limbs.
And she... she was so... plain.
He couldn’t possibly desire her for anything but revenge.
Truly, he must have been toying with her, playing some cruel, cruel game, for a man such as he could never want a woman such as she.
Not even for the space of a heartbeat.
His kindness only served to confuse her. It made her heart wrench painfully.
The lilting brogue and the soft tone of his voice tormented her, for it made her wish for things that could never be... a lover’s embrace... a whisper at her ear... his breath upon her lips.
All the things she’d heard whispered about in the dark corners of her father’s home.
“What is it, lass?” he asked softly.
Page turned abruptly away, unsettled by the wicked turn of her thoughts. She felt the flush creep into her face. “W-we’ve ridden all day without the least chance to rest,” she complained. “Nor to—” She gazed at him quickly, and then her glance skittered away. She was both annoyed and disconcerted that she should have to broach such a tender subject—hurt and disappointed, though she had no right to be, that he would play such games with her tattered soul. “You know...”
How could he? she asked herself.
He couldn’t know that the shreds of her heart were welded so delicately together. That a single whisper from his beautiful lips could melt her piteous heart like the first tender snowflakes upon the sun-blistered ground.