The MacKinnon’s Bride(68)

As for himself, becoming used to her presence was an undertaking he suspected he was going to wholly enjoy.

Thoughts of his cousin brought a pensive wrinkle to his brow.

Lagan had been acting strangely of late, brooding incessantly. Ever since his quarrel with auld man MacLean over his youngest daughter. Mayhap he should talk to the MacLean himself—much as he was loath to—for Lagan’s sake. Mayhap there was something he could do, as yet?

And mayhap not; auld MacLean loathed the hell out of him, for certain. His mediation was more like to drive the wedge more firmly betwixt them.

“Da! Da!”

Malcom’s shrill cry of alarm pierced his thoughts like the blow of an ax. He pivoted about, heart lurching, to find his son unharmed, but pointing wildly.

“Ranald’s gettin’ away!” Malcom shouted. “Ranald’s gettin’ away!”

Iain’s brows drew together at his son’s hue and cry. How the hell could Ranald possibly do that, dead as the bastard was. Following the direction of Malcom’s pointed finger, he caught sight of the crisis that held his son’s concern. Ranald’s body had somehow snapped free of its bindings—not the bindings, he realized, upon closer inspection. The harness had snapped, and while Ranald was tethered still, the saddle was slipping free. Even as he fully absorbed Ranald’s predicament, Ranald broke free suddenly, and began tumbling down the steep hillside, losing the saddle after the first violent turns. The tartan about him unraveled with every subsequent roll.

“Christ!” he muttered. Damn, but Ranald must have earned himself one hell of a curse during his lifetime. Iain doubted a dead man had ever had such bloody misfortune!

A few of his men vaulted from their saddles at once, and for the second time in the space of a day, went in pursuit of Ranald’s errant body.

Iain cursed roundly as he peered down, frowning, into Page’s blinking eyes.

She was awake, staring up at him. “I didn’t do it!” she swore at once.





chapter 21





There wasn’t a grimace-free expression amongst the faces staring down at Ranald’s body. Between the wolves, the plunge into the lake, his wet blankets, and the roll down the hill, Ranald was, without a doubt, the worse for his wear.

Page stood silently amongst the gathered, her face screwing in revulsion at the sight of the body lying so twisted before them. Her guilt was tremendous, for she knew she shared some measure of blame for the poor man’s misfortune. Lord, but her father had always said she could tax a dead man’s soul, and it seemed he was certainly correct, for this particular dead man was about as taxed as a soul could be.

Even so, she simply wasn’t about to take all the blame! She certain hadn’t killed the man to begin with— neither had she set the wolves against him. She had, however, dumped him into the lake during her escape. Of a certainty his wet blankets hadn’t done his appearance any service. God’s truth, he’d not been the most comely fellow she’d ever set eyes upon to begin with, but now he was fairly grotesque. She wrinkled her nose and turned away. Jesu, but it was a good thing she had such a strong fortitude.

“I’ll no’ be puttin’ him on my horse!” Dougal interjected suddenly, his tone fraught with disgust, his expression revealing as much.

“Neither mine!” announced Kerwyn. “Turns my belly sour just to look at him.”

Broc’s too, apparently, Page noted, a little bemused by the behemoth’s reaction to the dead man. In truth, he hadn’t even come nigh to the body, and still he knelt away from the gathered crowd, retching and making the most ungodly sounds Page had ever heard in her entire Life.

Although she was loath to intrude, she wandered near to him. “Might I help?”

Broc seemed momentarily bewildered by her question. “Help me spill my guts?” he answered, peering up at her, frowning a little. “Why should ye wish to help me, wench?”

Page shrugged and gave him a slight smile. “Because you’re not so very rotten as you think.”

“Aye?” he asked. “Says who?”

Page’s smile deepened despite his glare. “Says me,” she replied pertly. “My thanks to you for trying to help me this mom... Broc.”

“Sassenach wench!” he replied without heat.

“Behemoth,” she answered, grinning.

He ceded the tiniest hint of a smile.

“Aye, well... for all the guid it did me,” he quipped. “Ye dinna get verra far, now did ye.”

“Nay,” Page replied, her cheeks heating at the memory of her capture at his laird’s hands. She felt in that instant as though every guilty pleasure was written there upon her face. What must he think of her? What must they all think of her? Jesu, but she really didn’t wish to know. “I-I did not,” she lamented, and then ventured once more, “May I... that is to say... are you feeling better now?” Somehow, it suddenly seemed important to her that they not think of her unkindly—not even the surly behemoth kneeling so pitifully before her.