The MacKinnon’s Bride(6)
He didn’t want her, he told himself, shaking himself out of his reverie. No good would come of wanting such an impertinent wench.
He crossed his arms and glowered down at her. “D’ ye make it a habit to bathe yourself afore God and man alike?” He wasn’t certain why he’d asked the question; he knew she must. ’Twas how they’d managed to find her, after all, and yet he found himself oddly vexed over the notion.
She lifted her chin, denying him an answer, her dark eyes flaring with undisguised anger, and Iain tried not to chuckle at her mettle. Here she was, no more than a slip of a lass, challenging him before his men, when even his enemies dared not face him so directly.
Fools, all, for he intended to discover the name of the Judas who’d dared to hand his son over to the bloody English for barter. He planned to rip out the serpent’s tongue and stuff it up his bloody arse!
The grim reminder of his business with FitzSimon’s daughter turned his glimmer of good humor once more to rage. His jaw turned taut, and he asked her pointedly, “Have you no tongue, wench?”
Like the legendary phoenix rising up from its ashes, she stood to face him, her hands clenching at her sides.
“Have you no breeding?” she returned scathingly. “Scot!” She hurled the epithet at him with an imperious lift of her brows, and despite his anger, it was all Iain could do not to laugh outright at the unexpected insolence. “What concern is it of yours where I should bathe?”
Iain was incredulous at her brazenness, her foolhardiness. Were he any other man... Christ! Could she truly not know her folly? His gaze raked her from her wet, plaited head, down her long graceful limbs, wholly exposed by her wet gown, and on to her bare toes before returning to her face, carefully avoiding those delightfully tempting breasts, as he added, “You’ve an insolent tongue, wench. Need I remind—”
“Aye, well you shall have no tongue at all when my father hears of this!” she returned boldly.
Although she had to overcome the urge to take a wary step backward, Page held her ground and drew herself up to her full height. For an instant he seemed bemused by her reply, and then he arched a brow.
Challenging her?
“Truly?” he asked, and his smile turned cold.
Page shuddered at the bold way he appraised her once more. No man had ever dared look at her so—with such undisguised lust. It sent a jolt of alarm racing through her. And to her dismay, the tiniest thrill
Another quiver shook her.
Mayhap she’d lost her wits when she’d collided with his monolith of a friend?
She cast a glance at the others and found them all staring, mouths agape. Page hoped their idiocy wasn’t contagious. They were half-wits! Every last one of them!
“Catching glowworms perchance?” she asked.
A ridiculous sight, the lot of them; their brows drew together in unison and they cast surprised glances at each other, then snapped their mouths shut.
“Bones o’ the bluidy saints, wench! ‘Tis no wonder your da lets you aboot in the middle o’ the night,” the leader said. “He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your way home in the dark.”
Page’s heart wrenched at the barb. It stung like the rude crack of a palm across her face. She swallowed her pride and blinked away angry tears, determined not to betray her emotions to these heartless barbarians. He couldn’t possibly know how near to the mark he’d struck, or how much the truth hurt.
Nor would he care, she was certain.
Her eyes burned. “My father shall have you all beheaded for this insult to me!” she swore, and couldn’t help but note that his gaze roamed her body once more—this time more slowly and with a turn of his lips that both infuriated and appalled her.
Confused her.
Another frisson raced down her spine.
Forsooth, but the man had a mouth more exquisite than any man had a right to own! She blinked.
What the devil was wrong with her? How could she stand here contemplating lips, when her very life might well be at stake? Her honor at the very least!
Why, then, didn’t she feel more afeared?
By all accounts she should be. Everything about the man bespoke danger—everything from his barbarously unclad legs to his fierce expression proclaimed him a savage Scot. If she’d thought his brutish friend tall, this one was immense, towering above them all.
And yet... something about him seemed harmless … vaguely familiar, too.
Page narrowed her gaze, studying the shadowed contours of his face. She couldn’t know him. Could she?
It was dark. Mayhap her mind was deceiving her. Then again, mayhap she was completely addle-pated from the injury to her head. Certainly she was mad to even wonder whether those lips were so beautiful in the bold light of day.