The MacKinnon’s Bride(70)
Like that first night, they all stared at her, mouths slightly agape, saying nothing, only this time Page refrained from adding her acid wit. As she watched, their faces reddened, some of their expressions grew incredulous, some doubtful, and she backed away a pace. She cast a dubious glance at Iain and found him scowling fiercely. Lord, what had she done? Committed some cardinal Scots sin with her offer?
She met his eyes, searching.
Iain stared, blinking, scare able to believe his ears.
He’d been about to speak up and resign himself to carry Ranald when she’d beaten him to it. That she would be willing to subject herself to such an unpleasant task for her own kindred’s sake would have stunned him well enough already—particularly as his own men, Ranald’s friends, were all loath to bear up to the responsibility. Christ, but that she would be willing for Ranald’s sake was inconceivable.
Judging by the expression upon his men’s faces, they were every one as stupefied by her unanticipated offer as was he. If he weren’t so bloody provoked by the lot of them, he would have laughed at the response she’d managed to elicit from them. Damn, but she was priceless. In that instant he admired her immensely—wanted to draw her into his arms and kiss her soundly upon those delightful lips of hers.
And that’s not all he wanted to do to her. God, but she was endearing standing there, looking so beautifully anxious, her wide brown eyes so wary and yet forewarning. Her dress had, without doubt, seen better days, and yet it didn’t matter. Upon her it might have been made of spun gold. She filled it exquisitely, her breasts high and firm. He remembered the supple feel of them within his hands, beneath his fingertips, and felt himself harden, his blood pulse, at the mere thought. Worn as it was, the dress clung to her every curve like gossamer webs to bare flesh. Her hair. He suddenly wished he’d taken the time to unplait it and thread his fingers through the sunlit length. There would be another time, he decided. Damn, but he suddenly felt grateful to her bastard father. Aye, for she was a gift, not a burden. He gave her a wink, and her tension visibly eased.
“Weel,” Angus began, his face screwing thoughtfully.
“I’ll take him, da!” Malcom offered eagerly, tugging at his father’s breacan. “I’m a big boy. I can take him! Aren’t I, Angus?” He turned to look at the surly old Scot.
Angus’s brows lifted. “Ye’re a muckle lad, all right, but ye’re no—”
“Bluidy hell! Let her carry Ranald!” Dougal broke in furiously. “Why should we give up a horse for her? ‘Tisna our fault her da didna want her!”
Page froze at the declaration, her gaze flying to Dougal. For an instant she wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly. The suddenly wary expressions upon the faces staring at her told her differently. Her heart twisted as she turned to meet Iain’s gaze. “What... what did he mean... that my father did not want me?”
“Dinna listen to Dougal, lass.” She saw the truth in his eyes, though he denied it.
“Did my father not want me?” She persisted, her body tense, her breath bated while she awaited his response.
He stood silent, staring, refusing to answer, and Page saw in his expression the one thing she could not bear. Pity. She saw his pity, and her heart filled with sudden fury—fury at her father for discarding her so easily, fury at Iain MacKinnon for lying to her—fury at herself for wanting something that could never be.
“I’ll take the poor bastard!” Broc announced, elbowing his way into the gathering. “I’ll take him! It isna right to let her bear the burden! What’s wrong wi’ the lot o’ ye anyhoo?” He glared at Dougal particularly, and pointed out, “We’re his friends!”
The silence that fell between them might have lasted an instant, or an eternity, Page didn’t know. She felt benumbed.
“I’ll take him,” Kerwyn relented, shoving Dougal angrily.
“Nay... I should,” Kermichil suggested, casting a glower in Dougal’s direction.
“Mayhap I should,” Kerr yielded, and he, too, gave Dougal a fierce glare. “Look what ye’ve gone and done,” he said, casting a glance in Page’s direction.
Shamed into it, Dougal relented. “Verra well! I’ll carry the stinkin’ whoreson!”
“Nay! I said I would take him!” Broc argued. “Och, but you’ve gone and done enough already, ye bluidy mewling bastard!”
Page was scarcely aware of the glance Broc cast in her direction, but she felt his pity like a mountain of ash, blackening her mood just as surely as had she wallowed in it. She didn’t fool herself into believing the behemoth cared for her. Nay, but he felt sorry for her. And that was the very last thing she wished from any of them.