“Who are you?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her breasts, feeling wholly exposed to him suddenly, despite the shift she wore and the veil of darkness surrounding them.
He said naught, merely stood, staring, with that infuriating turn of his lips, and Page asserted, “Have you no tongue, Scot?”
For the space of an instant he seemed taken aback by the question, stunned even, and then he surprised her with the rich timbre of his laughter.
His men didn’t seem quite so amused. And bless the saints, Page didn’t know why he should be either. Her father would have slapped her face by now. Never would she have been so brazen with him!
“‘Tis the MacKinnon you’re speaking to,” growled one of his lickspittles. “Ye’ll be watchin’ your tongue, wench, lest you lose it!”
“MacKinnon!”
Startled, Page took a step backward—less in response to his warning than her shock. Her fear was at once forgotten in her indignation.
’Twas not simply any savage Scot who stood before her, but the savage Scot!
It was his child her father had granted safe harbor to as a favor to David of Scotland. The boy was to become a ward of the English court. Page had spent enough time with the youngster to know he’d been ill used. How dare this beast deal with his son so cruelly that his own king should be forced to intervene to safeguard him! Poor wretched child! ’Twas no wonder the cur seemed so familiar! Father and son shared the same look—albeit one morphed by age.
This face was hard and ruthless, despite the laughter that softened those exquisite lips. And ruthless was precisely what he was! Rumor had it, even, that he’d murdered his poor young wife after she’d borne him a son. “Blackguard!” she spat. “How dare you show your face here!”
He arched a brow at her. “I came for my son, wench. Did you think I would not?”
Came for his son, indeed!
Page was so infuriated that she thought she would box his ears. She couldn’t care less about the consequences, so angry was she.
“Aye, well, you’ll be leaving without him!” she returned. “My father will never release him to you!” Whatever else he might be, her father was no imbecile. Mayhap he held no tenderness for the boy, but he would never dare risk Henry’s wrath by returning the wretched child to his vile father. “Jesu, have you not done enough to harm him already?”
The MacKinnon stiffened at her accusation.
Good! Let him feel guilt! If he had a heart within that overgrown chest! “Aye, disabuse yourself of the notion he’ll be returning to Scotia with you, for your son is to be protected by King Henry himself!” she persisted, when his eyes betrayed alarm. “Tomorrow he will be out of your hands and safe from you evermore!”
The muscles in his jaw clenched, and he seemed momentarily unable to speak.
Page hoped he was feeling regret. Jesu, but the poor boy had come to them beaten and mute, fearful of even meeting her gaze. No matter that she’d tried to draw him out, he kept his silence still. “What have you done to that poor child that he fears even to speak? You should be deeply ashamed of yourself, sir!”
He found his tongue suddenly, and Page winced at the thunder in his tone.
“What d’ ye mean Malcom willna speak?” He advanced upon her, his look darkening, his arms falling away to his sides, fists clenching.
Page stumbled backward at his murderous expression, the obvious threat in his stance. “Y-you sh-should know,” she stammered. She took another prudent step backward.
He continued to advance upon her, demanding, “What have you done to my son?”
Page gasped and took another leap backward, her hand flying to her breast. “Me? You! What have you done to him!” What gall that he should cast the blame for his son’s affliction at her own feet! “He came to us just so!”
“What in God’s bloody name have you done to my son!” he persisted.
The MacKinnon towered over her, glaring down fiercely, and Page thought she might never catch another breath. Her heart vaulted into her throat, strangling her.
He was too close!
She winced, noting his distressed expression, and was no longer quite certain the tales told of him were all true—leastways not those accusing him of misusing his son, for he seemed ready to rent her to shreds at the very notion that his son might be harmed.
The rest of the tales were quite easy to believe, for the man standing before her appeared more than capable of ripping the heart from any man—or a woman—with little effort.
God’s truth, now she was afeared!
Her heart thrashed madly against her ribs until she thought the strain would kill her.