The MacKinnon’s Bride(71)
If she hadn’t been so staggered by Dougal’s disclosure, she might have been amused by the fact that they were all fighting now over who would carry Ranald. Brawling Scots. She moved away from the dispute, wanting to weep, but refusing to shed a single tear.
Jesu, but her father didn’t want her.
Had he refused outright? Or simply refused to deal with Iain? Or wasn’t it really the same?
Iain pitied her. He must. Surely they all did!
“Lass,” Iain began, coming up behind her and placing a hand gently to her shoulder.
Page shrugged away from him, infused with anger. “Don’t touch me!” she spat, and whirled to face him. “How dare you lie to me! How dare you!”
He was silent in the face of her accusation, his expression pensive as he stood staring.
“Why did you lie to me?” she asked him, and then regretted the question at once. She knew why, of course. He pitied her! She was the wretched, unwanted daughter of his enemy—and he pitied her! “What did he say—my father?” she demanded to know. “How did he refuse me?”
“Och, lass, does it matter?”
Her fury mounted with the reminder that he could not even say her name. “Aye, it matters! Aye! Did you not believe I had a right to know?”
She suddenly recalled the moment he’d come riding into the clearing with his son, the way he’d looked at her, and so much made sense. The looks upon all their faces—the shock when the MacKinnon had declared his intent to carry her home. The resentment they all seemed to feel for her. Broc aiding her in her escape...
She could scarce bear the thought of it all.
He seemed to consider her question, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He shook his head. “It matters not, lass... You’ve a home wi’ us.”
Page made a woeful keening sound, and her throat closed with a tide of emotion. She swallowed. “Like some stray animal brought in out of the storm?” She swallowed again, and let her anger become a balm for her pain. “I think not. What if I’ve no wish to make my home with you? Jesu! Why would I care to live amongst a rude band of Scots who cannot even seem to get along among themselves!” She didn’t care if she was being cruel. She wanted to be—wanted to lash out and wound. That he had the audacity to stand there and seem unfazed by her churlish remark only made her all the angrier.
All this time he’d known how her father had felt! All this time he must have pitied her! Somehow, it blasphemed even their lovemaking, for how could he have wanted her? God, but not even her father wanted her! Jesu, she couldn’t bear it.
“I have a right to know!” Page persisted.
He stood silent, his stance unyielding, his lips tight with displeasure.
“Did he refuse you outright?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink, merely stared.
“Did my father refuse you?”
He turned away, his jaw taut, and shook his head with what Page perceived to be disgust. “Aye,” he said. “He did, lass.”
Page felt the very life leave her suddenly, all her hopes, everything. Her legs would have given beneath her, but there was nowhere to lean, save her own two feet. As ever. Her voice sounded frail even to her own ears. “What did he say?”
He turned to look at her, seeming to study her, and then said, “He simply refused, is all. He said naught.” And then he turned away abruptly, as though he could scarce bear to look at her.
“I see,” she said, and somehow knew he was keeping the worst from her. Her father’s cruelty? Hah! She knew it already, didn’t he realize? She understood better than he did how brutal her father’s words could be. How many times had he taunted her that she was no man’s daughter? Certainly not his own? That she couldn’t possibly be his own flesh and blood? How many times had he told her she was unlovable? Despicable?
More times than Page could recount.
She wanted in that moment to tell Iain to fly to the devil—that she didn’t need him, or his charity, but it would be a ridiculous thing to claim.
She did need him.
What were her choices, after all? To live here in the woods with the beasts of the forest? To go crawling upon her knees to a king who would as likely spit in her face as not? Nay, she had no options, save for the one Iain MacKinnon offered her. And God’s truth, rather than feel grateful to him, she loathed him for it, and she wasn’t even certain why. Because he’d witnessed her shame? Because he’d made her feel wanted? Only to turn about and discover that he didn’t truly want her at all? That no one did. The knowledge filled her with a grief she’d never allowed herself before to feel.